Sit Vis Tecum
by Heathenesque
Summary: The victim's head had exploded from within, there was a tank of some mysterious red substance in the basement, and an animal that looked suspiciously like a cross between a dog and a human... This was NOT your typical Miami crimescene
1. Prologue

**Sit Vis Tecum**

**Prologue**

**Highway 95 – Clark County, Nevada **

**Approximately Five Miles Southeast of Indian Springs**

**11:27 pm**

Warrick Brown rolled to a stop behind the Indian Springs Sheriff's sedan on the left shoulder of Highway 95 and cut the engine on the county SUV. Before he killed the lights, he happened to glance at his partner for this case, then did a double-take at the eerily cast green glow from the dash combined with an unnatural inner light that brightened Greg Sander's eyes. Warrick just shook his head and grasped the handle on the driver's door; he knew what had the junior CSI so excited.

It was this place.

"Man, do you realize that we're just a stone's throw from Area 51?" Greg said.

Warrick merely groaned.

To Warrick, it was just the middle of BFE, in the middle of the night, and was most likely an unremarkable DB. Drunk, probably. Or stoned. Or the victim of someone who was drunk or stoned. Either way, it would be routine. Do the walk-through, grid the scene, take the pictures, collect the evidence, get the statements, and then wait around for the county to get a chopper out there to air-lift the body out of the ravine and back to the morgue. If he was lucky, he might make it back to the lab before the sun rose, but he wasn't holding his breath.

The acrid smell of singed electrical wiring, gasoline and fried rubber smacked him in the face the instant he opened the driver's door. The report had mentioned that the vehicle was in flames when the Deputy on duty had first arrived on the scene, and Warrick caught glimpses of thin smoke tendrils in the red and blue strobes of the cruiser's lights.

As he and Greg pulled their kits from the back of the SUV, Warrick took in everything within his line of sight. The flares on the blacktop to direct what little traffic that might come through here this time of night around the scene, the Sheriff's sedan and the Deputy's directly in front of it, both left of center on the sandy shoulder. The smoking remains of a Hummer sat sideways in the middle of the south-bound lane, and one spot light was trained on it, while the spot from the Sheriff's car was aimed down the shoulder, into a rocky ravine. Someone was sitting at the passenger side of the Deputy's car, head between his knees, and Warrick grimaced when he could see light reflect off of a puddle between his feet. "Great," he said as the person in the passenger seat coughed wetly and then added to the puddle. "What do you wanna bet the scene's been contaminated?"

Greg's annoyance reflected Warrick's. There was always a chance that the average civvie would stumble upon a gruesome DB and blow their chow all over the scene. It's happened often enough that none of the CSIs expected any less when they knew it was a jogger or hiker or someone vacationing from Podunkville, but they expected local law enforcement to have stronger stomachs. If nothing else, have enough sense to puke _away_ from the body. Preferably far away. Warrick hoped that was the case tonight.

"I'll let you collect that sample," Greg quipped and Warrick bit back a smart-assed response because the Sheriff was striding up to them.

The back-light distorted the shape somewhat, but Warrick didn't miss the feminine curves or the fact that she was on the short side. He was still stunned when she stopped directly in front of him, and he had to look _down_. She couldn't have been more than 5'3", with an intensity of gaze in her light eyes and a firmness in her freckled face that told Warrick immediately that she was former military. _That might make things a little easier,_ he thought.

She nodded stiffly and said, "Sheriff Ang Branaugh."

Warrick made the introductions for himself and Greg, then with a firm handshake that he was sure was going to leave a bruise on his hand later, the formalities and stiffness melted away. With a tired look and a jerk of her head, she led Warrick and Greg toward the ravine where the spot was trained.

The Deputy gagged again, and Branaugh shot the two CSIs an apologetic look over her shoulder. "If it's any consolation, Deputy Smith did make it about ten feet from the body before he lost his lunch."

"Well, that's good," Greg said as they stopped at the edge of a ten foot drop.

"Not so good, CSI Sanders," Branaugh said. "He was going uphill when he did."

The steep incline was mostly rock, and the easiest path within the lighted zone to get down to the body laying at the bottom in a twisted heap. Warrick turned on his Maglite, shined it along the path and suppressed a sigh. Wetness was splattered all over the rocks and from the looks of it, it was vomit all right… and it was mixed with the victim's blood.

He shined his light further down, and illuminated the victim better. He was a large man and even from that distance, Warrick could see he was in excellent physical condition. He was twisted at an odd angle, so it was likely he was dead before he hit the bottom. Aiming his light at the victim's face and bald head, he got a good look at what caused the Deputy to lose it.

"Whoah. Looks like his head broke open like an overripe melon," Greg said, and the three of them were rewarded with another distressed sound from the Deputy.

Sheriff Branaugh coughed and tried to suppress a smile, and Warrick shot a '_was-that-really-necessary_' look at Greg, who merely shrugged, smirked and started snapping photographs.

"DB or Hummer?" Warrick asked.

Greg let his camera hang loose around his neck as he balled a fist into the palm of his hand. "Two out of three?"

Three rounds of _paper, rocks, scissors_ later, Greg was gingerly threading his way down the embankment, and Warrick was walking the blacktop with a flashlight, following the skid-marks the Hummer had left. When he found the end, he made a note of the distance from the vehicle, took photos, and measured the width of the tread and the pattern.

He ran the scenario through his mind; the victim was driving about 65 mph --the speed limit-- headed northwest. There wasn't much traffic along this highway at night, but the driver had been surprised enough to slam hard on the brakes and over-correct, coming to a sideways stop in the southbound lane. There was wildlife in the area, so Warrick didn't rule out the possibility that a deer or coyote ran across the road and startled the driver.

But that wouldn't explain why there was nothing but a Hummer-shaped cinder smoking in the middle of the highway.

He slowly walked around the vehicle, shining his Maglite over every inch, looking for some clue, and finding none. The Hummer was going to be hauled back to the lab anyway, but it would have been nice if he could have gotten an idea of what had happened while he was at the scene.

Warrick was about to list his first theory as simple electrical fault, when he came around the front of the behemoth and noticed that there was an irregular, oval-shaped spot on the grill that was still chrome. He measured the oval and photographed it, then bent down to take a closer look. Darkened chrome –stained blue and red from heat-- spidered out from the edges of the oval before it all blended together into a crispy, burnt mess --but within the untouched spot was something that gave Warrick Brown pause. A subtle pattern in the shape of a large hand, and at least one partial print was visible.

He took the print and swabbed the chrome, and barely registered the sound of the tow-truck arriving. They could wait until he was done processing the Hummer. As far as the CSI was concerned, this had just become a crime scene.

"Find something?" Branaugh asked from near his right shoulder, causing him to start, but he recovered before he dropped the sample.

"Something," he said. "But what, I can't tell for certain yet." _Because it's just not possible that a handprint caused the Hummer to catch fire by itself,_ he thought.

"Your tow is here," Branaugh said.

"I noticed." Warrick sealed up and notated the last envelope, then straightened. He could see the tow-truck driver at the edge of the barrier, leaning against the back of the flat-bed, arms and legs crossed and chewing on an unlit cigarette. He had on grease-stained coveralls, but they were hastily pulled on. Warrick could see a black shirt peeking through the half-zipped front of the coveralls, and the hem of black slacks from the legs. The man was still wearing dress shoes, on top of that. An irritated glare aimed at the CSI through moussed bangs that were currently defying gravity. Warrick felt bad for the guy. He'd obviously had his date interrupted to come out to the middle of nowhere and haul a burnt Hummer back to the crime lab. "Wanna give me a hand sealing the evidence before our unfortunate friend loads it up?" he asked Branaugh.

Thirty minutes later, the Hummer was wrapped in plastic, sealed with evidence tape and ready to go. Warrick gestured to the truck driver, then he and the Sheriff got out of the way.

As the driver passed him, he heard the young man mutter, "Couldn't have got Hughes to take the call. Oh no… I know the Boss will have stolen another one from me before I get back, too."

Warrick winced in sympathy. Some jobs just sucked the life out of any possible romantic pursuits.

As the Hummer was loaded onto the flat-bed, Branaugh handed Warrick the Deputy's statement. "I sent Smith on home," she explained. Compassion softened her features, and she added, "He's just a home-grown, Mr. Brown."

Warrick smiled and glanced at the report. "You know the vic?"

"The General? Yeah."

"General? Wouldn't that make this the jurisdiction of the base?"

Branaugh shook her head. "Retired. Actually, we hadn't seen him around these parts in a couple of years. I didn't think we'd ever see him again, to be honest. And most of the town was glad of it."

"Real nice guy, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Never really knew the story, but there was a lot of speculation of what he and his little elite group did… and none of it was pleasant. They'd come in and treat the townies like their personal servants, though. There was some sort of big shake-up a couple of years back, and that particular group was disbanded, I heard."

The Hummer was loaded, and the tow-truck was aimed south. With a honk and a wave, the driver took off down 95 toward Vegas and the crime lab.

"So you don't know what he might be doing back in the area?"

Branaugh shook her head. "Nope, but he's not the first of that group to show back up over the past few days. About four others passed through town on their way to the base."

Warrick's cellphone beeped, and he flipped it open. "Brown."

Greg's excited voice crackled through the speaker. "Dude, you need to come see this."

* * *

Warrick shined his Maglite on the stainless steel cuff around the Vic's right wrist and hand as Greg turned it this way and that. He had to admit it was elegant in design, jointed at the wrist and knuckles, leaving the fingers free. It looked like a modern-day gauntlet… but it was hard to say whether it had a purpose, or was just bizarre jewelry. Not that the guy looked the type.

He also failed to see what it was about it that had Greg so damned excited. "Okay, so what am I looking at, here?"

"This," Greg said and aimed the top of the gauntlet at Warrick with a flourish.

Warrick saw a circle etched into the steel, with some symbols inside of it. An interesting pattern, but didn't ring any bells for him otherwise. "Greg, if you know what it is, would you like to share?"

"Sorry, yeah. I've only seen stuff like this in books. It's an—"

They were interrupted by a deafening roar, blinded by a sudden line of light bright enough to illuminate three football fields, and nearly thrown back by a gale-force wind.

As Warrick staggered to his feet, holding a hand up to shade his eyes from the glare, he saw a shadow emerge from the light to stand at the edge of the embankment. It was unnaturally thin and tall and as it raised its arm, Warrick thought he saw something in its hand.

He had just enough time to tackle Greg back to the ground before a fireball shot through the air, down the embankment and skimmed over them, scorching clothing and leaving the stench of singed hair in its wake.


	2. One of These Things is Not Like the

**Sit Vis Tecum**

**Chapter One:**

"**One of These Things**

**is Not Like the Other"**

The first thing that caught Horatio Caine's eye as he strode up the drive of the run-down, 70's style tract home, was the young officer standing sentry outside the front door. The face was new, and Horatio guessed that he wasn't just a transfer from another shift or department, but a rookie.

The officer was whip-thin and just barely hit the minimum height requirement for the Miami-Dade police department at 5'8". His stance appeared relaxed but alert, and while there was a slight sheen of sweat on the young man's forehead, there was none of the clamminess or pallor that would be typical of a rookie working his first homicide. Even his dark blue eyes held none of the wide dilation of shock and fear and were scanning the gathering crowd just outside the barrier of yellow tape with careful observation. All very professional, collected and by-the-book.

"This blood splatter has more than the usual amount of brain matter stuck in it," Horatio heard Calleigh Duquesne say from just inside the small house and caught the subtle twitch of facial muscle on the officer... and that was what pegged him.

He lowered his sunglasses just enough to meet the officer's eyes over the top of them and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Horatio gave him a nod and took note of the young man's name tag. "Officer… Biggins?"

"Sir?"

"Is this your first homicide?"

A low chortle drifted through the door then Eric Delko said, "You sound like you're surprised."

"Not at all," Calleigh said. "But doesn't it seem a bit odd that it has the consistency of well-done scrambled eggs? And look at the pattern of the blood. This wasn't done with a projectile."

Biggins' cheek twitched again, and Horatio caught the quick darting of the officer's eyes toward the door and the almost-but-not-quite furrow of his brow. The CSI tilted his head and leaned further into his line of sight. "Officer Biggins?"

Biggins blinked and focused on Horatio. He swallowed nervously, but kept his composure otherwise. "S-sir? Yes, sir. Sorry."

"It's like an oven in here," Eric said, "what'd you expect?"

Horatio nodded at Biggins and slid his sunglasses back up his nose. "You're doing fine, sir."

"Well, yeah," Calleigh said. "But this looks almost… flash-fried. Like they were cooked before they hit the wall."

"It's like the back of his head simply exploded," Alexx Woods added to the discussion, and Horatio could hear the stunned confusion in the gentle Medical Examiner's voice. "But there aren't any burns anywhere near his face to account for it. For that matter, I haven't seen any on the rest of his body, either."

Biggins' eyes went just the slightest bit wider at that.

"It gets easier, Officer Biggins," Horatio said, then left the rookie to handle the door as he went inside. He had a crime scene to process, after all. And from the sound of it, not one that was routine.

He was assaulted by the overwhelming stench of rotting death as he crossed the threshold --something not unexpected; it was a crime scene, after all—but while the smell had drifted from the house to alert the neighbors that something was amiss, it was like a miasma within the home's walls.

The preliminary reports mentioned that the resident lived alone; was rarely seen by his neighbors --and from the looks of things, it certainly appeared that the man was a hermit. It was mid-day and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, but the inside of the house was like a cavern with heavy curtains drawn tight. The atmosphere was thick and heavy –the air conditioning hadn't been turned on at least since the victim was killed.

As Horatio took off his sunglasses and gazed about the living room, he wondered if the man ever used it at all –a disturbing thought, considering just how hot and humid Miami weather got most of the time.

There was little evidence of typical suburban life within view, in fact. With the exception of the incredible number of books scattered around the room, it reminded Horatio more of someone squatting in a shack in the Everglades. No television, no computer, and oil lamps rather than electric lights. There was no art on the walls, not even photographs of family except for one single framed 5 x 8 perched on one of the overloaded bookshelves that mostly lined one interior wall.

The room itself was a shambles, but it was difficult to tell how much of it was created in the process of the crime, and how much was already a part of the victim's normal living arrangements. The shelves bulged with hard-bound books of varying ages and thicknesses, the floor was a maze of scattered piles of even more books –nearly obscuring the ugly avocado shag carpeting that looked to be original when the house was built. The coffee table was buried under several stacks along with papers, leather-bound journals, and a half-empty cup of what appeared to be coffee at one point, but now was a petrie dish of fuzzy, green mold.

Directly across from the front door was a wide arch leading into a small, and quite bare, kitchen. It was stark white and there was nothing on the counters, save for a coffee-maker that was half full. There wasn't a single cup or plate, or even a set of canisters to be seen.

To his left, at the end of the packed bookcases, was a door leading into what appeared to be the bedroom, but Horatio doubted the victim slept in there much, because the battered couch under the front room window had an afghan and a pillow.

Horatio carefully wove his way through the leather-bound landmines --and around Alexx, who was kneeled next to the victim-- to get to the shelves. He gently lifted the photograph to get a closer look. Within the tarnished silver frame the victim was posed with a little girl in long brown pig-tails and a huge white dog. _Regardless of how the man lived_, he thought, _he was somebody's father._

"Alexx, do you know if one of the officers moved the body?" Calleigh asked from right behind Horatio. He turned and noticed the scowl on her pretty face as she stared at the blood-stained wall on the opposite side of the room.

"No, Baby," Alexx said as she examined the knuckles on the victim's right hand. They were in perfect condition. No bruising, no contusions, no defense wounds of any kind –and they weren't rough and knobby, but elegantly smooth. The hands of an academic. "Mr. Tucker is right where they found him."

Calleigh's eyes narrowed as she did silent calculations, then she shook her head. "Someone did."

"Are you thinking there was more than one crime committed, Calleigh?" Horatio asked.

"I dunno. Maybe."

Alexx gently brushed at the short bangs on the victim's forehead –hair that might have been ginger, were it not for the blood and gore matting it and turning it a dark brown. "You never even had a chance to defend yourself, did you, Mr. Tucker?" the ME said. "And now it looks like someone else took advantage of you, too. I'm so sorry."

Tucker's eyes were wide and terrified and were once light blue behind large, round glasses. His arms weren't well-defined --the man was not an athlete-- nor did any sort of physical labor. It probably didn't take much effort to overpower him.

Horatio glanced up from Mr. Tucker, then closed his eyes and turned his head just in time to avoid the flash of Eric's camera as he took a shot of a bloody footprint in the center of the living room floor. When he faced Eric again, the younger man was kneeling down to take a closer look.

"Well, there're definitely two distinct sets of footprints," Eric said as he glanced up. "Rough guestimate, size 12 and size 8. But I'm not going to get any usable tread pattern from these." He pointed at one set of prints and said, "Size 12 went out the front door. He didn't look to be in a hurry, either." Then he stood and crossed the room, watching the path on the floor as he headed toward the only other door leading off the room. "Size 8 went this way." He stopped at the open doorway and nodded. "Through the bedroom."

Horatio followed the younger CSI into the bedroom. It wasn't nearly as dark as the living room, the window was closed, but the heavy curtain had been pulled down and tossed onto the unmade twin bed. Other than the bed, the only other furnishing was a spindly night-stand that didn't look like it should support the weight of the even more books piled on top of it, and more shelves lining one wall.

In the far corner of the room, in stark contrast to the volumes of books, was a plain wooden trunk. It was covered in dust and the lid was partially open, revealing the arm of a doll hanging over the lip. It was the only evidence Horatio had seen so far that a child had ever lived here.

Horatio tilted his head in curiosity as he gazed around the small room. There were two other doors. One led to a bathroom that was almost as bare as the kitchen, and the other opened to a shallow, empty closet. "Eric, how many one bedroom houses do you think were built in this area in the 70's?"

Eric knelt near the window to get a closer look, and shot a glance over his shoulder at Horatio. "It does look too small, doesn't it?"

Horatio scanned the back wall of the closet, then leaned in and peered closer. "Yes, Eric. It does. Much too small."

"Looks like Size 8 went out through the window," Eric said.

Horatio ran his light along what appeared to be a crack in the sheetrock. It wasn't irregular, such as what happens as a house settles, but straight, like someone had failed to tape the seam before mudding it. As he ran the light further down, it widened by a hair, but enough that he could feel cool air coming through.

When he lightly laid his hand on the wall, he could feel a subtle vibration.

Horatio listened close, and while it was difficult with the ambient noise around the neighborhood, he picked up a low hum. "Eric, has Detective Tripp arrived yet?" he asked, as he eased the strap off his gun.

He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Eric had shifted from his usual casual stance to one that was coiled to move quickly, feet shoulder width and one hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. "He's still caught in traffic, H. You found a door?"

"Indeed I did, Eric," he said as he eased his weapon from the holster. "Let's see where this rabbit hole leads."

In his peripheral view, he saw Eric motion to Calleigh, and he knew without a shred of doubt that she would fetch the nearest officer for the escort –most likely that would be Biggins.

Right now, however, he was not taking his eyes off the hidden door, because along with the low hum, he'd picked up the sound of something moving.

* * *

Gil Grissom leaned against the hood of the county SUV and allowed the buzzing activity to wash over him for the moment. Every experienced field tech available was on the scene, and a few who weren't so experienced, along with 50 Highway Patrol officers, and the entire police force of Indian Springs –which amounted to 6. There were countless volunteers from the tiny spot in the middle of the desert, along with approximately 100 soldiers from the base nearby, and one chopper in the air. 

When three people in law enforcement mysteriously disappear, it's serious business.

Catherine Willows was heading the line of walkers into the desert from the ravine next to Highway 95. Although ravine wasn't really an apt description; it was more of a ditch. Approximately ten steep, rocky feet down from the road, 30 feet across, and then an almost gentle grade of approximately five feet up the other side. After that, it was nothing but flat desert. They'd been at it for three hours now, and at this point, they were beginning to look like the stereotypical line of ants.

Sara Sidle was going over every inch of the SUV Warrick and Greg had taken last night, and Nick Stokes was going over the Sheriff's sedan. At the edge of the scene, Jim Brass was questioning the only person who'd been on the scene and hadn't disappeared. Deputy John Smith certainly looked nervous and edgy, but Gil was willing to give the benefit of the doubt for now. The deputy looked rather young and possibly inexperienced, but he didn't act like he was trying to hide anything.

Twelve hours ago, Warrick and Greg left the lab on the call. Nine hours ago, the air lift arrived and found no one at the scene. Eight hours ago, Gil received the call that two of his best CSIs and one small-town sheriff were missing. Seven hours ago, volunteers started arriving. And five hours ago, they were ready to begin the search, but they were stalled by a sudden squall. It dumped sheets of rain on the entire area for a 20 mile radius for two hours, causing a brief, but intense flash flood through the ravine. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it passed, taking evidence with it.

_So how does an experienced sheriff, two field techs, one burnt Hummer, and a dead body just… disappear?_ When they arrived on the scene, there wasn't any sign of a struggle. In fact, except for the SUV and the patrol car, there wasn't any sign anyone had been here at all. But Gil wasn't about to leave it at that.

Just because you couldn't see the evidence didn't mean it wasn't there.

Jim closed his notebook and dismissed the deputy. The younger man snapped to attention, and sharply saluted, causing Jim to lurch back a bit in surprise. The detective started to return the gesture, stopped about mid-way, shook his head, then just waved at Smith.

As the deputy drove off, Jim joined Gil at the SUV. "Well?" Gil asked.

Jim shook his head and sighed. "He doesn't know a thing. Apparently he was so freaked out at finding a DB he just spent the rest of the night tossing his lunch. He said that Sheriff Branaugh sent him home, and when he left, everyone was just fine."

Jim opened his notebook, and started going over the information he did get, but Gil only half listened to him. He was more interested in the dark sedan with tinted windows that was pulling to a stop at the shoulder just at the edge of the barrier. One of the soldiers from the base, an officer who stood about six feet, with dark hair and rectangular glasses, leaned down to peer into the window, then stepped back, and saluted as the passenger door opened and another officer emerged. This one actually appeared younger --no more than 5'8", slight-built, with black hair that seemed to constantly get in his face-- and clearly outranked the first one.

Interestingly, the formalities were instantly dropped as the younger man led the older one away from the car, and leaned in to speak to him. Gil had become good at lip-reading over the past few years, but these men were turned in a way that he couldn't see anything they were saying.

With the Air Force base not all that far from Las Vegas, Gil had learned to identify most of the shoulder insignia representing each division. The one on the shoulders of the two officers and a small handful of others among the search teams was new, though. The background was green, with a rampant white dragon in the center of a gold interlaced diamond and hexagon and laurel leaves beneath. Something tugged at the edge of Gil's memory at the symbol, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

He was just listing which books he would dig through when he got back to the lab, when the officer in glasses tensed up, and started pointing toward the ravine. He'd turned a bit and waved at the highway, and it was clear the man was growing agitated. Gil could now see what he was saying, and he focused on the man's mouth.

'_Dammit, Roy if there was even a shred of evidence left, it's gone now. You're taking too big of a risk having us out here like this.'_

The ranking officer –'Roy'—remained unreadable, but it was obvious by the other man's reaction that what ever he'd said didn't sit well at all.

'_Necessary? With that psycho running loose? How many of **our** people are missing?'_

'Roy', glanced in Gil's direction. Dark eyes assessed much in an instant, and he took the other man by the shoulder and turned him, thus ending Gil's eavesdropping, but giving the senior CSI something else very interesting to contemplate.

"Did you even hear a word I've said?" Jim said, pulling Gil's attention back to the detective.

He gave Jim an oh-so innocent look and said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me," Jim said.

Gil tilted his head curiously as he returned his attention to the two soldiers. "Jim, why would a man be wearing leather gloves in hundred degree weather?"

"I don't know. For work?"

"These aren't work gloves. They're more like driving gloves."

"Maybe for driving then."

Gil shook his head. "He wasn't driving."

Jim followed Gil's gaze to the arguing soldiers. "You got something?"

Gil pushed off the front of the SUV. "I don't know, yet," he said as he strode to the edge of the ravine. He crossed his arms and studied the landscape. There had been some sign of surface scorching on the rocks leading down into the ravine earlier, but very little, very light, and it was washed away by the downpour. Still, there was something not-quite-right about the terrain.

"Jim, what do you see?" he asked when the detective joined him.

"A lot of wide open space to get lost in. But I'm sure _you_ see something completely different."

"You're right." Gil turned and headed across the highway --toward the gradual rocky incline-- and began to climb. He paused and glanced back over his shoulder at Jim, who was at the base, feet planted firmly, arms crossed, and a stubborn set to his jaw. "Are you coming?"

With a defeated sigh and sag to his shoulders, Jim Brass followed Gil up. "Sure, why not. It's not like I have anything better to do today but climb rocks in street shoes."

The words had no sooner left his lips, when Gil heard Jim slip and cuss under his breath. He paused and looked back over his shoulder again. "Careful."

"Aw c'mon," Jim said. "I like to live dangerously. I thought you knew that."

Gil reached a wide out-crop and waited for Jim to catch up. About five minutes later, the detective was next to him, grumbling and scowling. "Why did I let you talk me into this?"

Gil feigned mild offence. "I just asked if you were coming. You could have said no."

"Oh, _now_ you tell me."

Gil welcomed the detective's personal brand of humor. It wasn't because the man didn't have any concern for the missing men… Gil knew for a fact that Jim was very worried. Just as he was. But both men had known each other for years and knew how to act as a pressure valve for each other when things got tense. It was necessary to be a little bit insane in order to keep their sanity intact.

Gil nodded toward the desert and said, "Now what do you see?"

"The same thing, only more of it," Jim said. "So are you going to tell me what _you_ see?"

"I see evidence."

"I thought the rain had washed all that away."

"What the Lord taketh away, the Lord giveth."

"Don't you kinda have that backwards?"

Gil shook his head, and then pointed to the desert side of the ravine. "Not this time. Notice how that area is perfectly flat? It's also in a perfect circle. The bedrock is usually covered in several feet of sand in this area, but right there, the sand was all washed away. Why?"

"And you think this is evidence of our missing people?"

"It's evidence of something, Jim."

"Please tell me you're not starting to believe those alien abduction stories that David's always going on about."

Gil gave Jim a _you've-got-to-be-kidding-me_ look. "There's always a rational answer. It's just a matter of finding it."

Jim let out a relieved breath and said, "Oh, good. You had me worried for a minute there." Then his cellphone barked, causing Gil to arch a brow. As he pulled it from its case, he shrugged and said, "It came with the phone. I thought it was kind of neat." Then he placed the receiver to his ear and said, "This is Brass." He listened for a moment, then glanced up at Gil. "It's the chopper. They're low on fuel and headed back to base."

"Have them get some shots of that circle before they go."

Jim nodded and put in the request, but Gil's attention was already elsewhere. He scanned the terrain in an arc, taking in every detail he could within his field of vision. The arc ended where the black sedan was still parked and the two officers were still talking. As if by some signal only 'Roy' heard, the ranking officer gazed up at Gil. Fathomless eyes met his, and a fine brow slowly rose in challenge.

* * *

_This just keeps getting weirder and weirder_, Eric thought as he followed Horatio and Biggins down the narrow passage to the basement. The rookie had taken the lead, Eric covered the rear, and all three of them had their guns out, backs pressed against the wall --descending the stairs with extreme caution. 

The moment H had asked about Tripp, Eric knew that there was trouble. Technically, the first officers on the scene should have cleared the entire house, and frankly, anyone with two brain cells would have known there was more to the interior than what was immediately seen. On the other hand, it would have taken the officers hours to find that door. They just didn't have that sort of training, and who would have suspected a secret passage in a lower middle-class tract home anyway?

There would be some write-ups, Eric was sure, but not for not finding the door and clearing the whole house… for not informing the CSIs of the _fact_ that they didn't find it. They reported the house secure. It wasn't. And that made this scene very dangerous, indeed.

Typically, there were certain things that could be anticipated in this situation and Eric was automatically on the alert for them. Those conditions still existed, but the bizarre nature of a hidden door and what they found just beyond it unnerved him, because now he didn't know what to expect. Every sense was heightened; every little sound made him tense and he kept reminding himself to breathe. The last thing he wanted to do was get overly twitchy and make a deadly mistake.

The first room they'd entered had all the windows sealed off and blocked, and the only light available came from the Maglites the three of them carried. Their preliminary sweep had revealed a wall of shelves filled with more books –_no surprise there_—and a rough bench loaded down with beakers and test tubes and Bunsen burners, all connected together like some twisted Mouse Trap game, and his first thought was _meth-lab_. The smell of sulfur and other chemicals stung his nose, but the odor was all wrong. _So Mr. Tucker was cooking something else, entirely. Designer drugs? _

Eric could see parts of what looked to be giant doodles on the walls and ceiling, but there hadn't been enough light to get a good look. It wasn't until Horatio lit the single oil lamp on the bench, that the younger CSI fully saw the hastily painted circles and the archaic symbols within them. It was enough light to see the entire room at once and to discern the shapes all over the walls, ceiling and, Eric discovered, the floor. But the low, unsteady glow of the oil lamp did nothing to chase away the absolute creepiness of the scene.

_Not a drug dealer or designer, then._ It had been a small measure of relief, but it had also created more questions than it answered. _If not drugs… then what? _

As Horatio flipped through a thin journal on the bench, Eric photographed the painted circles and a series of diagrams which were tacked on the wall to his left. He'd come in close to shoot each page individually and had discovered that most of them involved organic chemistry. But as he'd reviewed each one, he grew increasingly more disturbed at what he was seeing.

He'd centered his Maglite on two diagrams in the middle –one, clearly the outline of a human body; the other, of a dog. Most of the notes around the forms had been in a spidery scrawl that was difficult to read, but appeared to be Latin. One word was clear –written in bold, block letters across the top of the two diagrams, and Eric had to shove down rising alarm. "This looks like something out of a bad Frankenstein movie."

Horatio joined him and studied the diagram a moment, and Eric could see the tensing of the man's jaw. "Doctor Frankenstein was only trying to resurrect the dead, Eric. I think Mr. Tucker was researching something far more insidious," Horatio said as he'd added his light to Eric's, forcing into stark relief that single, disturbing word…

…**_chimera._**

"So where's that humming coming from?" Biggins asked from the middle of the room.

Both Horatio and Eric turned to the young officer who's lips were pursed in concentration and skimming the walls with his light.

"That, Officer Biggins, is a very good question," Horatio said, and started looking closely at the bookshelf.

Eric had seen the arc worn into the floor just as H had illuminated it. "Looks like that shelf gets moved a lot."

"Yes it does," Horatio said, and gripped the side of the case. It had opened easily and with almost no sound. "Curiouser and curiouser," he'd said as he'd shined his light down the narrow stairs leading into a basement.

_More like a dungeon_, Eric thought as they reached the bottom of the stairs and cautiously entered the room.

* * *

Calleigh was gathering the tools she was going to need to walk the back yard when Detective Frank Tripp arrived. She suppressed a giggle when he started to bluster through the door, only to jump back out of the way when Alexx and the late Mr. Tucker exited. "Well hello, Frank. Glad you could join us," she greeted him with her most brilliant smile. 

He groaned and rolled his eyes, but Calleigh didn't take it personal, she knew it was directed at the cause of his frustration…

"Damn tourists," Frank grumbled.

"Heavy traffic?"

"Gridlock."

She rose smoothly to her feet and started for the front door, kit in hand. "Well, I'm about to examine the back yard. Care to join me? You can walk off some of that frustration."

"Where's Horatio?"

"He and Eric are down in the dungeon," she said as she sauntered past and out the door.

The incredulous sound of Frank's voice was a delightful reward when he nearly squeaked, "Dungeon?!"

* * *

"Gentlemen, I believe we found the source of the vibration," Horatio said as the three men stared at the large glass tank that was filled with a viscous red liquid that seemed almost alive. Aerators were circulating it, making it appear to pulse and throb and breathe, and lights within the tank gave the substance an eerie glow that lit up all but the darkest corners of the basement. 

"I'm calling Haz-Mat," Eric said and flipped open his phone.

"You do that, Eric," Horatio said, but his attention was on officer Biggins. A perfectly normal reaction would be trepidation, even outright fear, as strange situation after strange situation piled on top of each other. As a seasoned CSI, Horatio Caine knew, the evidence always led to a rational answer, but even he was finding it difficult to believe that little axiom right now.

Biggins, however, looked like he'd just discovered the Rosetta Stone. His eyes were bright with an inner fire, and the man was practically vibrating. He certainly wasn't breathing.

"Officer Biggins," Horatio said firmly. Behind him, he could hear Eric calling for Haz-Mat, but Biggins ignored him for the moment. "Biggins!"

The rookie finally snapped around to Horatio, and there was just the briefest flash of such pure, absolute hatred in the young man's eyes, that Horatio started to point his gun at the rookie's head.

"Sir?"

"We need to secure the room, officer."

Eric had finished calling in Haz-Mat and was now talking to Calleigh on the phone, telling her to evacuate the building, and clear the area…

…and in the farthest corner of the basement, Horatio heard the sound of a chain scraping along the floor just before he heard an unearthly growl.

* * *

"It's the craziest thing," Calleigh said to Frank as they picked their way through the tall weeds that had overrun the back yard. The yard was surrounded by an unkempt hedgerow that reached at least ten feet and cast most of the small area in deep shade. The weeds had choked out any semblance of grass, but so far none of them were noxious --just _ob_noxious with cockleburs and stick-tights-- and looked like it hadn't been tended in five years. "The guy sealed off the other bedroom, created a secret passage, and set up some sort of lab." 

Frank stumbled, caught himself and glared back at the offending tree root. "Meth?"

Calleigh stopped and looked back. "No. Designer drugs, maybe." She faced the house and the window directly in front of her, jamming her fists into her hips. "This is the window Eric said Size 8 might've gone through." She studied the weeds nearest the house and moving away, and then set her kit on the ground. "Well, these weeds certainly look like they've been disturbed recently, don't they?"

As she flipped the lid of her kit, Frank jerked his head along the path of disturbance and said, "I think I'll see where Size 8 came out at."

"Why thank you, Frank," Calleigh said as she grinned and slipped on her gloves. Before she could get started, however, her cellphone chirped and she pulled it out of the holster. "Calleigh."

She listened as Eric instructed her to clear the area for Haz-Mat, then had her attention yanked in the opposite direction by the urgent sound of Frank's voice. "No one's in the house now, Eric," she said as she rose and headed for where Frank was, near the back of the hedgerow. "I'll get Frank to clear the area for a one block radius. Could you hold on just a second?"

When she reached Frank, he was knelt down, and it wasn't until she was right on him that she saw the midnight blue of a Miami-Dade Police officer's uniform. As Frank rolled the body over to expose his face, Calleigh's breath caught in her throat. "E-eric, are you on the speaker?"

"_No. Why?"_

"Because I don't know who the hell you have in that basement with you, but it's not Officer Biggins."

* * *

Horatio waved Biggins back from the dark corner as soon as he heard the growl. From the scuff-marks on the concrete, he estimated just how far the animal might be able to reach, and he didn't want to take the chance of an officer being mauled. 

As Biggins stepped back, Eric came into Horatio's view. The young CSI was keeping calm, but he'd known the man for long enough to read the subtle cues in his body language. Something was up, and by the way Eric's eyes darted at Biggins, then back to Horatio, he knew that the 'something' had to do with the rookie. He was already growing suspicious of the officer and Eric's silent warning only added to the mounting evidence that Biggins was not all he appeared to be.

Unfortunately, the opportunity to gain the upper hand with a minimum of fuss disappeared as a large, furry form growled once more and leapt out of the shadows.

"Biggins!" Horatio shouted, as he saw the gun come up, and the rookie squeeze the trigger. The animal collapsed in a heap at Biggins' feet… at the end of the chain that was hooked to the choke collar around its neck.

In an instant, both Horatio and Eric had their own guns aimed at the rookie's head. "Turn over your weapon," Horatio ordered.

At first, it seemed that Biggins wasn't going to do it, but Horatio pulled the hammer back on his gun with a resounding click and the rookie complied with an arrogant smirk.

As Horatio slipped the confiscated weapon into the waistband at the back of his slacks, he said, "Raise your hands. Slowly."

The smirk grew as Biggins complied.

"Careful H," Eric said as he patted Biggins down. "He's a ringer." Not finding any other weapons, he came back up, his gun quickly returning to its target.

That was almost a relief for Horatio. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a dirty cop. Especially one so young. "Is he, now?" Horatio said. "Well, Mr. Biggins, would you care to tell us who you really are, and what you know about that substance in the tank over there?"

There was a rumble of feet pounding down the stairs, and then Frank, two other officers, and Calleigh burst into the basement, guns drawn.

"I thought I heard a gunshot," Frank said.

"You thought right, Frank," Horatio said, his eyes never leaving the arrogant face of the imposter.

Frank jerked his head at the false 'Biggins', and one of the accompanying officers cuffed him. Just as he was being led off, Frank grabbed his arm and jerked him around to face him. "So who the hell are you?"

The imposter grinned and said, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Yeah, well, we'll find out soon enough." To the other officers, Frank said, "Get him out of here. And be careful, this guys a cop-killer."

As Horatio knelt next to the wounded animal, he caught one of the officers jerking the imposter just a little bit harder than he probably should have. He wondered if there would be any delays in the suspect's arrival at the station, and whether he was going to suddenly develop some mysteriously acquired injuries. He'd never condoned _needless_ violence, but there were times…

As Eric shined his light on the animal, Horatio reached out –slowly so as not to startle it-- and smoothed the silky brown hair that striped the animal's head, back and tail. It looked canine, but there was something very wrong with the shape of its head. It was too flat and wide, and when it bared its teeth, they weren't carnivorous, but more omnivorous.

The bullet had pierced its chest and a dark red bloom grew and spread through the thick white fur of the creature's belly and its breathing was labored and gurgling –Biggins had ruptured the lung, then. It was suffering and there wasn't much time to save it, but the idea of ending its misery quickly like he would for any animal didn't sit well with him –especially after what he'd seen in Tucker's journals.

It opened its eyes and looked right at Horatio with an intelligence that made him shiver, then it made a small, sad noise that made his blood run ice cold.

"Is that… a dog?" Frank asked as he knelt on the other side of the animal.

"I believe this is our key witness, Frank."

"Wit…nessss?"

Frank's eyes went wide and he lurched back.

Calleigh's only reaction was to sit on the floor, open her kit, and start what triage she could. Only a slight tremor in her hand betrayed just how shook up she was.

"H?" Eric whispered. "Did that… just talk?"

"Yes it did," he said with a voice that sounded far calmer than he felt.

"Whooo?"

"My name is Horatio," he said gently as he petted the creature again.

"Horatio…friend?"

"Yes. Horatio, friend. Do… do you have a name?"

"Niii-nnna." The animal –Nina, he corrected—coughed wetly, and pink foam rolled out of her mouth. She pinned him again with a big-eyed gaze. Pained, confused, questioning. "Horatio, where is Papa?"

"Sweet Jesus," Frank whispered.

Horatio swallowed and tried to smile. The horror of what had happened in this unassuming little house, in this unassuming neighborhood was growing clearer, and for the first time since he was a green field tech, he wanted to be sick. "He… he's upstairs, Nina."

"Why did he make me hurt like this?"

Horatio glanced up and asked Calleigh. "Can you help her?"

Calleigh tore her gaze from Nina to stare at him, her face gone ashen. "I don't know, Horatio. I can try to make her comfortable until we can get her to a hospital—"

"Or a vet?" Frank said.

"I'm c-cold," Nina said.

"She's going into shock," Calleigh said, and Horatio yanked off his suit jacket.

As he laid it over her, covering her as much as possible while allowing room for Calliegh to treat her, he said, "Nina? Nina, look at me." Her eyes wobbled then settled on his face, and he continued, "Nina, here's what I want you to do, I want you to concentrate on me. Concentrate on me, Nina. We're going to get you to a doctor and make it stop hurting, but you have to help us by staying awake. Can you do that for me, Nina?"

"Tired," Nina whined.

"I know you're tired, Sweetheart, but you need to stay awake for me, okay? Nina? Nina?"

Nina shivered, then twitched, and Horatio knew she was gone before the life left her completely. Then her eyes went blank and the gurgling, wheezing breath stopped for good.

Calleigh brushed the now flat, dead eyes closed, and sounded so very much like Alexx as she said, "I'm so sorry, Sweetheart. At least you don't hurt anymore."


	3. Manufactured Truth

A/N: Oh goody! We get Elrics this chapter! Fair warning, for the purposes of this story, ranks and ages are a bit… off… compared to the manga and the anime. Don't worry, explanations will be forthcoming… eventually. Just remember this is A/U for FMA.

**Sit Vis Tecum**

**Chapter Two:**

"**Manufactured Truth"**

"This is Lt. Cain."

"_Lieutenant, this is Charles Wilmore from Hazmat."_

"Yes, Mr. Wilmore. Do you have the results yet?"

"_I do. And while that soup is organic in nature, it isn't even a Level 1 biohazard. No danger at all, except maybe from the plastic surgeons this guy might've put out of business." _

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Mr. Wilmore."

"_What you have in that tank is an organic, highly nutritive substance that could… conceivably… artificially gestate an elephant, or become the Fountain of Youth to a whole lot of rich old ladies. It's nothing more than… well, best description is amniotic fluid."_

"I see. Mr. Wilmore, please send over a sample of this substance for DNA testing, if you would. And treat the rest of it as though it were a Level 4 biohazard."

"_Lt. Caine? I'm not sure you understand me here. There is absolutely nothing dangerous about this substance."_

"I do understand, Mr. Wilmore. However, it _is_ dangerous. A police officer was murdered today over this synthesized amniotic fluid and I mean to find out why."

"_Understood. Will a quarter liter be enough?"_

"It will be more than enough. Thank you. And Mr. Wilmore? Please use extreme caution when you transport the sample. I don't want any more deaths because of this substance."

When Horatio hung up the phone, he lifted a thin, leather-bound journal off of his desk. It was one among many that had been brought in to be catalogued from the Tucker house, but it had struck Horatio as unusual because the handwriting was vastly different from most of the others he'd seen so far. While most of the personal journals were written in the same spidery script as the notes on the charts hanging on the basement wall, this was written in bold, sloppy penmanship that looked more like the journalist was young, impatient, and trying to write with his non-dominant hand. It was difficult to read, but what he could decipher appeared to be a travelogue.

Horatio didn't believe that was what it actually was though, and that made it interesting.

However, what had fallen out of the journal when he'd thumbed through it earlier, that had caught his attention. A snapshot of happier days; the little girl who was in the photograph Horatio had seen in Mr. Tucker's living room, but here she was in a coat and mittens, posing proudly next to a lop-sided snowman. With her was a boy who looked to be about 14, with long blonde hair pulled back in a single braid and striking gold eyes… and was currently beneath a large, white dog. From the looks of things, it appeared that the dog had chosen that moment to pounce the boy. And behind the candid slice of life, a very large suit of armor sat with one hand on the child's shoulder and the other on the dog's head. The little girl with long brown pigtails –_is this Nina?--_ looked like she was no more than four here. _About the same age as when she posed for the portrait with Mr. Tucker._

Questions gathered steam and raced across Horatio's mind, but it would take some time to get the answers. He would know more when Alexx was finished with her autopsy of Nina.

* * *

Alexx performed the autopsy with her customary professionalism, but the more she examined the large, furry form on the table, the more questions she had. She was not a veterinary pathologist; this was not her area of expertise, but she was familiar enough to know that this was not the body of a normal dog. 

Horatio, due to the nature of this particular case, had insisted she examine Nina first, but he was keeping very tight-lipped about his own theories. At the same time, the room was locked down tight –even the theatre overhead was secure from prying eyes. No one was allowed in without prior approval from Lt. Caine.

Under normal circumstances, Troy Biggins, the murdered officer, would have been first priority. Especially now that word had trickled down to her that the two officers who were to escort the suspect to the station hadn't reported in yet and no one knew their current location. However, because of the strangeness of the creature before her, it was distinctly possible that the examination could be interrupted at any moment by Federal Agents and Nina would be whisked away, forever to remain a mystery.

Of course, at the rate things were going with the autopsy, Alexx had a feeling that this would be the final result in any case.

As she sliced off some tissue samples for testing, the Senior CSI entered and she said, "Horatio, nothing is adding up here. By all indications, this poor creature was fully developed, but the organs are all wrong."

"Define 'wrong', Alexx," Horatio said as he approached the table and gazed down at Nina.

"Look here," she said as she pulled a flap of flesh further away from Nina's ribs. "This poor baby's chest cavity was entirely too small for the size of her heart and lungs. She could barely breathe and the blood-flow was so constricted it's amazing that there isn't any more necrosis in her extremities than I've already found." She indicated other organs as she gave him the laundry list of why this creature should-not-exist. "Her digestive tract is inefficient. Her intestines are too small for the rest of the body and her stomach is slowly eating away at itself in any case. Her kidneys had started shutting down a few hours before she was shot, her liver has failed, she doesn't even have a spleen." She nodded at the x-rays glowing softly on the lighted panes nearby and led him over to them. "Look at those joints, Horatio. The deterioration is similar to rheumatoid arthritis in someone much older. This creature's bones are built for something far smaller and they just couldn't handle the stress of all that bulk. But she's not obese."

She finally faced him and allowed her confusion and fear to show as she pointed at the body. "Horatio, I don't know what that is on my table, but it's absolutely impossible that she could have reached that level of maturity in her condition. She was in constant, extreme pain. The best she could have survived from birth would have been a month and that creature looks to be at least two years old."

"Alexx, how much do you know about cloning?" Horatio finally asked when she'd finished blowing out all her frustration.

"Enough to be able follow the scientific journals on the subject, why?"

"Then you might remember 'Dolly'?" Horatio said as he strode back to the table and brushed a hand over Nina's head. "The clone of that sheep had the same cellular age as the original."

"But she still _looked_ newborn, Horatio. This poor animal looks like a fully mature dog… or… something."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Horatio's lips, but there was no amusement in it. "Alexx, what do you think she is?"

"I'll know more when I get the results back from the tissue samples," she said, staring at Nina. She just couldn't tear her eyes away from the form in front of her; it was too much like something from a very bad horror film, in her opinion. "For now, I don't dare speculate, because what she _appears_ to be is patently impossible."

"Alexx," he said, then paused. His tone caused her head to snap up and focus on him and what she saw in his eyes disturbed her. Horatio Caine looked almost… frightened. "Alexx," he started again, "she… spoke to me."

Alexx felt the blood drain from her face to pool somewhere down near her feet and the senior CSI standing in front of her suddenly looked like he was at the end of a long tunnel. "Dear God, Horatio," she whispered when the implication finally sunk its claws into her stunned mind. "Are you saying Mr. Tucker combined canine and human DNA?"

"I'm saying that this is a very distinct possibility, Alexx, and somewhere out there is the real Nina."

At that moment, Frank Tripp burst in, followed closely by Eric. Alexx scrambled to cover Nina up, but Horatio stayed her hand with a light touch. "Frank and Eric were in the basement when we found Nina, Alexx." Then he faced the two men at the door and said, "Detective Tripp? Mr. Delko?"

Frank took a deep breath, but that didn't alleviate the tension around the man's jaw or the fury in his eyes. "We found our men, Horatio. Dead. The ringer's in the wind."

"Speaking of the ringer," Eric said, "I just got a hit from AFIS. More or less. We've been locked out; this guy's file is in the DHS databse."

"Homeland Security?" Horatio turned to Alexx and said, "Make certain Nina is secure, Alexx, then I want you, Calleigh and Ryan with those two dead police officers." As he strode out the door, he said, "Eric, you're with me."

As the younger man fell into step with him, he said, "Where we going, H?"

"Back to Mr. Tucker's house. To find Nina."

* * *

The police cruiser had slammed hard enough into the light pole to not only shove the engine into the front seat, but to completely dislodge the pole and send it crashing into a brand new Mercedes. 

Calleigh whistled at the ruined car as she and Ryan Wolfe strode past it and said, "Someone's gonna have fun explaining that one to their insurance company."

Ryan scanned the people at the edge of the barrier and zeroed in on an extremely agitated middle-aged man gesturing wildly and arguing with one of the cops handling crowd control. "If he's not calling a lawyer first," he said.

The Fire Department had already pulled the engine from the front seat so the bodies could be accessed and currently Alexx was kneeling over one of the dead cops. "Both of their necks were broken," she said. "These boys died quickly, thank goodness."

Ryan cast a worried glance at Calleigh and said, "Just how big was this guy?"

"Actually, not very," she said; the expression on her face was as puzzled as how he felt. They'd reached the cruiser and split up to opposite sides. When they both knelt down, it was the first time they'd gotten a look at the devastation inside.

"What the hell was he on?" Ryan asked as he stared in disbelief at the metal mesh divider laying haphazardly on the back floorboard. It had been bent and twisted as though it were caught in a hurricane. The back of the front seat was warped, indicating quite a bit of strength had been involved in the struggle, and the radio had been completely ripped out.

"I don't know," Calleigh said. "Looks like all the weapons are accounted for, though."

"Probably doesn't need them," Ryan muttered as he snapped shots of the inside of the cruiser.

"No kidding. He had to be pretty damn fast too," Calleigh said as she started looking over the front, "in order to get the drop on two seasoned cops like that."

Ryan found one bracelet of the handcuffs that had been used on the suspect and gingerly picked it up by the edge. The links that held the two bracelets together –usually behind the suspect's back—were clean, which meant that the snapped one was missing. "What do you think the tensile strength is of stainless steel cuff chains?"

Calleigh's head shot up and she passed a quick glance from the cuff to Ryan, her face gone tight. "Any prints?"

Ryan shook his head as he swabbed the inner ring of the bracelet, then squeezed out a drop of phenolphthalein onto the cotton --but the swab remained white. "I'm surprised there isn't any blood on this. There's gotta be epithelials though." He bagged and noted the cuff, then flipped on his Maglite. He caught sight of something in the oblique light and picked it off the back of the seat with a pair of sterile tweezers. "How long was this guy's hair, Calleigh?"

"It was regulation," she said as she peeked over the back of the seat. "Why?"

Ryan held up a single dark hair that was at least 24 inches long. "Looks like our ringer had some help."

* * *

Eric stared at the yellow-taped front door of the Tucker house and grimaced. He'd long ago stopped having nightmares over every gruesome crime scene, but every now and again, one would fly under his radar and he'd spend a week or two with little sleep. This was going to be one of them and he had the nasty feeling that it would take quite a bit longer than a week to get over the horror he'd seen in the basement. 

Horatio unlocked the door and ducked under the tape and Eric followed. He had a job to do and he couldn't allow his personal feelings to interfere with the investigation. Something heinous had happened to a little girl and she, at least, deserved some justice.

Horatio had filled him in on the way of what Alexx had discovered so far about 'Nina' and Eric was still trying to wrap his brain around it all. It seemed so completely unreal and he couldn't shake the feeling that this was all just a very bad dream brought on by too many cheesy horror flicks and too much spicy pizza, and that he'd wake up any moment and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all…

…at least, he told himself, it was a pleasant fantasy. Unfortunately, the scientist and cop in him refused to let his mind wander too far in that direction. This was ugly, nightmarish, bizarre reality, and there was no way he could escape it. And, if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to. He wanted answers –as badly as H did—and he wasn't going to stop until he got them.

Starting with the basement.

What they were searching for in this 'Mad Scientist's' lab was evidence of either the floor, or the walls having been disturbed. Cut out and replaced –hiding a small body. There was a chance that the real Nina was still alive somewhere, but no one had yet to find any sign of Mr. Tucker's former wife or child. Still, he and H both hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.

Eric was scanning the concrete floor in the middle of the dimly lit room with his Maglite and caught a subtle difference in the coloration. Kneeling to get a closer look enabled him to see the somewhat familiar pattern of a very large circle with lines and symbols inside. It was very similar to some of the patterns that had been painted on the walls, ceiling and floor of the secret room right above them. "H." When Horatio joined him, Eric said, "Take a look at this."

"It appears that Mr. Tucker's artistic skills had improved at this point, doesn't it?"

Eric couldn't resist the small laugh at the dark humor. "It's definitely more precise. Looks like chalk, though. And pretty faded. I wonder how long ago he drew this? And _why_?"

"That is a good—" Horatio instantly went silent and both of them glanced up at the ceiling when they heard a pair of thumps overhead. With a gesture, both men moved to either side of the doorway at the bottom of the stairs and waited with their guns drawn. There wasn't even a pause before two sets of steps headed down the stairs into the basement –whoever it was, knew exactly where they wanted to go and the first thing that went through Eric's mind was the ringer.

The first set of steps that headed down was uneven, almost as though the person was supporting a heavy burden on one side; the second set was lighter –a much smaller person, perhaps?

The time for speculation was quickly over as the first person entered and in a flurry of movement, Eric found himself staring _down_ the barrel of his gun at a short, blonde male who was glaring back up at him with intense gold eyes –and a metal hand over the muzzle of his weapon. "Go ahead and shoot, buddy. You'll be digging the bullet out of your ass."

"Brother, what—"

"Raise your hands over your head. Slowly," Horatio said to the second invader.

The boy complied without argument, but the older one wasn't moving. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Eric used his free hand to tap at the badge hanging on his belt. "Miami CSI. Now put your hands up. Or you'll be digging my partner's bullet out of _your_ ass."

* * *

Natalia Boa Vista had just completed her log notes when the printer kicked out the results from the DNA tests she'd performed on the sample of the 'synthesized amniotic fluid' Hazmat had delivered. As she closed the log and started across the room, she heard the printer begin to spit out another sheet and wondered who she was going to have to corner _this time_ about using the DNA lab's equipment for personal projects. By the time she reached the printer, it had added a third page to the stack and she was mildly annoyed to notice it was her lab results that had printed last. 

She snatched the page off the printer and had every intention of leaving the rest to be found by the miscreant that had sent them, when she did a double take. The second page was also a DNA report. She pulled it off the tray and saw the bottom page was another report. About that time, a fourth page was coming out of the printer and before it had completely exited, Natalia was staring in disbelief. It was yet another DNA report. "What the hell?"

* * *

Horatio studied the two boys across the table from him. Both of them were small and far too young to be as hardened as they were trying to look. They clearly weren't street kids, weren't in any gangs. 

They were, to put it bluntly, too 'pretty'. Both of them had long blonde hair pulled back into neat ponytails --although the younger one's was darker-- and the clothes were custom, which meant money. If that weren't enough, the prosthetics on the older one told an interesting story. They were made of titanium and were fully articulated. Both his right arm and, as Horatio discovered when the boy was being checked for hidden weapons, left leg. They were, in his opinion, works of art; they were also extremely experimental.

Horatio wondered when and how he came to be in possession of such prosthetics.

The older one did all the talking and had tried to pull off street slang, but failed miserably. The words just didn't roll off his tongue like someone who had lived the talk. Both of them were articulate and obviously very well educated. Private schooling, Horatio assumed. _So why would they try to pretend to be gangsters?_

"Tell me again, Mr. Elric," Horatio said, "what were you and your brother doing in the Tucker house?"

Edward, the older one, chuckled sarcastically. "What? Am I not speaking English, here? I told you, we found the place empty and thought we'd take a look and see if we could scavenge something. Get a few bucks, you know?"

"I know. And I don't believe you." _At least he's dropped the bad lingo_, Horatio thought. _We're making progress_.

Edward shrugged and slouched back in his seat with his arms crossed. "Suit yourself. Are you going to charge us with trespassing? What is that? A misdemeanor?" He held out a hand and said, "Give me the ticket and we'll get out of your hair."

"Actually, you're both being charged with B&E and interfering with an on-going investigation. Felonies."

Edward snapped straight in the seat and did a fairly good job of acting affronted. "Over an abandoned house? Get real!"

"That house, Edward, is where a man was murdered and I think you know that. How did you and your brother miss the crime tape over the doors and windows?"

"We came through the bedroom window in the back. There wasn't anything on it."

"Then how did you miss the blood stains on the carpet and the spatter on the wall?"

"I told you, we came through the bedroom window. We never went anywhere near the living room."

"I never mentioned where the blood was, Edward."

Edward's teeth ground together, but he'd suddenly become mute. Alphonse, on the other hand, shot a nervous, side-ways glance at his brother. Horatio knew they knew far more than they were letting on and he was placing bets that he would get what he wanted from the younger one, first. He wasn't going to focus on him, though. Horatio knew, the moment he tried to apply any pressure on Alphonse, Edward would go critical, and they wouldn't get a thing from either of them.

So he focused on Edward, watching out of the corner of his eye as Alphonse's weak defenses and resolve slowly crumbled. The older brother and Horatio had played a verbal game of cat and mouse for over an hour now, but he was growing weary of this. They knew something, he knew they knew, and it was time for the final play.

"Where is Nina?"

Edward smirked and shrugged. "Nina who?"

Horatio caught that little twitch –the hitch in the boy's breath, the dilation of his pupils, and the slight sheen of sweat that popped out on his forehead. Alphonse went pale. "You don't know?"

"Nope."

"I think you do, Edward," he said as he laid a photograph of a much younger Edward Elric, Nina and a big, white shaggy dog posing in front of a suit of armor.

"Brother," Alphonse whispered.

Edward shot him a silencing glare, then turned that heated look on Horatio. He flopped back in the seat again, defeated… or so he would have Horatio think. "Okay, fine. Shou Tucker was my professor. It took me a couple of years to track him down and it figures that when I do, he's dead. All I wanted was to get back what was mine. A couple of journals."

"I saw those journals, Edward. They looked like travelogues. Have you done much traveling in your life?"

"You could say that."

"Now what would an academic like Professor Tucker want with your travelogues?"

"Beats the hell out of me. He always was a few sandwiches short of a picnic."

"You're quite young to have studied under a professor, Edward. What was Professor Tucker's field of study?"

"He was our personal instructor," Edward said. "He taught us the usual. Reading, writing… 'rithmatic."

"Research?"

Edward shrugged and smirked again, but Horatio didn't miss the wariness underneath the casual act. "Sure."

"Genetic research?" Horatio asked as he tossed the morgue photo of 'Nina' on the table.

Both boys recoiled at the sight –an expected reaction when having something like that photograph shoved under your nose—but then Alphonse's lips trembled and tears welled up in the boy's eyes.

Edward, on the other hand, looked ready to commit murder and Horatio had little doubt he would be capable of it --if the person responsible for 'Nina's' condition weren't already dead. "Fucking bastard," Edward whispered, and Horatio knew the epithet wasn't directed at him. "I can't believe the son of a bitch actually did it." Edward's face crumbled at that moment and he started to shake with the effort to keep from crying.

Alphonse didn't even try. Instead he covered his eyes with one hand and sobbed softly in his seat.

"Edward, do you know where Nina might be?" Horatio asked gently. They had broken, there was no point in grinding the shattered pieces of their defense under his heel.

"Mr. Horatio," Alphonse said so softly Horatio almost didn't hear him. "That… that _is_ Nina."

"Al," Edward hissed warningly.

The younger Elric rounded on his older brother and said, "He already knows more than he should Brother and it's our fault. If we'd just gotten here a couple of days earlier--"

"Al!"

"But maybe Mr. Horatio can help us!"

"Perhaps we can help each other, Alphonse," Horatio said.

Edward studied the Senior CSI for a long moment, while Alphonse stared with pleading eyes at his older brother. Finally Edward chanced a glance at Alphonse and Horatio was quite certain that the older boy melted just a little bit.

Edward fell back in his seat and tiredly rubbed at his face. "Dammit," he whispered, then said, "Okay, what do you need?"

"The first thing I need is Nina," Horatio said.

Edward shoved the photograph back at the other man and said, "Al just told you, that's Nina right there."

"That is Nina's genetic material combined with canine DNA. I want the real Nina, or her body."

"Lt. Caine, believe me… that _is_ Nina," Edward insisted.

"Mr. Elric, _that_ is impossible."

Edward let his head drop back over the top of the seat with a frustrated growl and grasped double fists full of his long, blonde hair. "Goddamn you, Mustang."

"I beg your pardon?"

"General Mustang," Alphonse said, "is our commanding officer."

"I see," Horatio said slowly. He had never been so grateful for an interruption as he was at that very moment, when Eric tapped lightly on the window and gestured for Horatio to step outside of the room. "Gentlemen, I'll return in a few moments. In the mean time, please reconsider your current story."

As soon as he closed the door behind him Eric cast a glance into the room, then back at the older man and suppressed a smile. "Giving you a hard time, H?"

Horatio carded his fingers through his hair and shook his head. "I can't tell if they're deliberately trying to run me in circles, or if they really believe the things they're telling me."

"Yeah, well, you're not going to like this," Eric said. "I ran the older one's prints through AFIS and got the exact same lock-out as I did from the ringer."

"DHS?"

"Yep."

Horatio watched as the two boys leaned in close to each other and talked softly. "Now why in the world are these teenagers in the Homeland Security database, Eric?"

"Terrorists?"

Horatio started to head back into the interrogation room. "At this point, nothing would surprise me."

"Lt. Caine?"

Horatio spun at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and faced a mild-mannered looking man with dark hair, rectangular glasses… and an Army uniform. "Yes?"

The man held out his hand in greeting and said, "I'm Colonel Maes Hughes, Lt. Caine. I'm the advocate for Major Alphonse Elric and Lt. Colonel Edward Elric."

Horatio and Eric just glanced at each other, then stared at the officer before them.

"Eric," Horatio said, never taking his eyes off of Colonel Hughes. "I stand corrected."

* * *

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix. CSI: and CSI: Miami are created and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and owned by CBS. All rights reserved. 


	4. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Sit Vis Tecum**

**Chapter Three:**

"**Be Careful What You Wish For"**

**24 hours ago:**

Greg Sanders snapped photo after photo of the DB from every angle and he was fairly certain he'd figured out the COD. Although he wasn't a Medical Examiner and Doc Robbins probably wouldn't take too kindly if Greg stepped on his toes over this, in his opinion it was obvious. After all, it was pretty damned difficult to live after you've had your brains explode out of the back of your head.

Okay, so _how_ the man's grey matter had managed to boil over and pop his skull open like a pressure-cooker with a broken valve was still to be decided, but hey, at least half the mystery was solved. The only thing that Greg knew of that could cause an actual internal explosion like that was fire –namely the entire body and specifically the head being engulfed. And since there was no sign of spontaneous human combustion, or any other type of burns on the DB, he could safely assume there was another cause. Well, that was what the Medical Examiner was for, right? Greg figured he should leave _something_ for Doc Robbins to do.

One thing he noticed was that the man had spent too much time in the sun through his life. His skin was bark brown and leathery. _I wonder if--_ Greg shook his head and snapped another photo. _Nah, too much sun will give you melanoma, but it won't make your brain explode._

The flash bounced off of the gauntlet on the DB's right hand and wrist causing Greg to mutter a curse and blink away the after-image. Kneeling next to the body, he waited for his eyes to adjust back to the darkness and felt around in search of a tell-tale bulge in a pocket that would indicate a wallet and possibly an ID, but didn't find anything. _Well, I suppose robbery **might've** been a motive. Seems like overkill just for a wallet, but I've seen worse over less, too._

The DB certainly looked like he had money, too. The clothes weren't just custom –_kinda have to be to fit this guy_-- they were well-made. _And… well… a Hummer isn't exactly an economy car._

Greg lifted the DB's right hand to take a closer look at the gauntlet. It certainly wasn't the typical jewelry a rich, middle-aged man would wear. Definitely custom-made; Greg had never seen anything like it before. It looked like polished chrome over stainless steel, which meant it had to be cast, rather than worked like silver or gold. It was jointed at the wrist and the first knuckles to allow for ease of movement while the fingers and thumb were left exposed, and while it was certainly efficient in design –_designed for what, though?—_it was still quite artistic in its simplicity. But the gauntlet wasn't just for show. As expensive as it had to be to make it, if that were all it was for, the man could have had it wrought from gold.

_Gold and silver are soft metals, though_, Greg thought as he noticed some light scratches along the knuckle-guard and the palm. _This was designed to withstand an impact._ He could also feel scratching in the top of the gauntlet, but shining his Maglite directly on it made it difficult to see. Greg changed the angle of the beam, turned the DB's hand so that the top was horizontal to the groundand squinted. There was definitely a pattern there, but it was very finely etched; even oblique light wasn't bringing out the detail.

Greg pulled a jar of fingerprint powder out of his kit, then he carefully dusted the top of the gauntlet and blew off the excess. Just as he'd expected, the fine powder settled in the etched design, making it more visible. What he hadn't expected, was what was revealed. "No way," he breathed, then snagged his cellphone from the holster on his belt.

"_Brown."_

"Dude, you need to come see this."

Ten minutes later, Greg was waiting --while not exactly patiently, at least quietly—for the inevitable question from Warrick. The other CSI's lips were pursed and his brows were furrowed as he studied the gauntlet from every conceivable angle and Greg was about to give up and just _tell_ him, when Warrick said, "Okay, so what am I looking at, here?"

_Finally! _With a grand gesture that would make any kid with the coolest new toy proud, Greg turned the DB's wrist at an angle for Warrick to see the etching. "This!"

Warrick was spectacularly unimpressed. "Greg, if you know what it is, would you like to share?"

With a sigh and a sag of his shoulders, Greg said, "Sorry, yeah. I've only seen stuff like this in books. It's an—"

And that was when everything went sideways.

Neither of them had heard anything approach the scene --and out in the desert like that, a vehicle could be heard coming from miles away—but the two CSIs were knocked back by the force of a sudden strong wind and blinded by a bank of lights that threw everything into surreal, stark relief. The next thing he knew, Warrick was tackling him and pinning him to the ground.

Greg couldn't see much from his angle, but he heard the roar right above them and felt the furnace blast and saw the ground shift from grey to a flickering gold and it seemed like forever that whatever it was just hovered over them…

…then it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared and the rumble of engines and the whine of a chopper seemed quiet in comparison.

Warrick rolled off of Greg then and both men flopped over onto their backs to be greeted with the business ends of half a dozen guns inches from their faces. Greg had to force his eyes to stop crossing in order to see who was on the other end. The bodies were back-lit and he couldn't see any faces, but he could pick out enough detail to recognize military uniforms.

Both men slowly raised their hands without argument.

Once back on the highway, they were met by a dark-haired, dark-eyed, slight-built man that appeared to be the officer in charge. "Gentlemen, I'm General Roy Mustang, and I'm afraid you'll be coming with us."

"Look," Warrick said, "I don't know what you think is going on here, but we're from the Las Vegas crime lab. I can show you my ID, if—"

"I'm well aware of who you are and why you're here, Mr. Brown," Mustang said, then with a sharp gesture with a leather gloved hand to the soldiers behind them, he spun and strode off.

Both Greg and Warrick had their arms yanked roughly behind them and they were cuffed. "Hey," Warrick protested. "Wait a minute!"

"Sorry about this, man," one of the soldiers behind them said, as blindfolds were brought down over the CSIs eyes.

Warrick tried to dodge away. "Dammit! What the hell's going on here?"

He stopped fighting when a serious-looking blonde woman pulled the hammer back on her weapon and pointed it right at Warrick's head without a word.

Greg remained silent as he was blinded and then hooded --more interested in the General and the design he caught a glimpse of on the man's leather glove. It was remarkably similar to the design etched into the DB's steel gauntlet and a theory was beginning to gestate.

* * *

The chopper ride was short and didn't give Greg much idea of direction or distance and while he got the impression that they'd passed through a hangar by the way their steps echoed, it wasn't all that helpful. The trip down in the elevator only told him they were fairly deep underground; which was no help at all except to tell him that escape was next to impossible.

Not that traipsing through the desert would have been a good idea anyway.

They'd been led down a series of corridors that obviously weren't empty. Greg could hear other people passing them by –some were strolling, but most of them seemed to be in a hurry—and no one said a word.

They finally ended up in a room that was positively silent in comparison to the corridors, and Greg could feel carpet under his feet. He stayed right where he was put and listened as several people left and the door was closed, but he could sense that someone was still in the room with him and Warrick. And although the carpet muffled the sound of bootsteps, he could tell whoever it was, was really, _really_ big.

The cuffs came off first and Greg rubbed the circulation back into his wrists while he listened to the other set coming off of Warrick. Neither man moved or said a word; at this point it was better to wait.

The other person in the room came back around in front of Greg, then a deep voice said, "You're welcome to remove the blindfolds now."

Greg took off the hood and the blindfold, then blinked at the assault of bright light and sea of green carpeting at his feet. When he glanced up, all he could see was a wall of desert fatigues and lurched back a step. He followed the perfectly straight line of buttons up… and up… and had to take another step backwards in order to see the face above the uniform.

The soldier had to be at least seven and a half feet tall and damn near as broad across the shoulders, and it was only the amused crinkle at the corners of his light blue eyes that kept Greg from cowering in a corner at that moment. The thick, blonde mustache hid the soldier's mouth, but shifted when he smiled, and he was completely bald except for the curled forelock. He nodded slightly then said, "I am Lt. Colonel Alex Louise Armstrong." He waved a huge hand about the room and said, "Please make yourselves comfortable. You'll be given time to freshen up and eat, then Colonel Hughes will be here to speak with you."

Greg glanced around, noticing that someone had made the effort to make the room look welcoming. There were colorful quilts on each of the two beds, with a change of clothes for both of them, pastel paint on the walls and framed prints. There was a door that Greg assumed led to the bathroom and a small table with covered trays on the other end that had some rather tantalizing scents coming from them.

"Nice digs," Warrick said as he gazed around. Then he faced the Lt. Colonel and added, "For a cell."

"We apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Brown, but you're not being held prisoner here."

"Really? So what do you call it? And how the hell do you people know our names?"

"Colonel Hughes will be here in 30 minutes. You'll be informed then." Armstrong then bowed to each of them. "Mr. Brown. Mr. Sanders."

The entire time Armstrong had stood in front of them, he'd kept his hands behind his back, but Greg watched carefully as the man reached for the door and was satisfied to see he was wearing a gauntlet similar to the DB's. Only Armstrong's was of a different metal –brass it looked like—and with spikes along the top. The design, as well, was somewhat different… but it was enough to add to the theory Greg was forming.

As soon as they were alone, Warrick started pacing and mumbling. Greg, on the other hand, settled in a seat at the table and lifted the cover off one of the trays. He was impressed with the KC strip and herb-roasted potatoes. Not one to let a free meal go to waste, he dug in.

"What the hell is going on here?" Warrick grumbled as he flapped his hands about and continued to pace. "This is America; they can't just lock us up without a reason. What happened to the Fourth Amendment, for crying out loud? And I don't care how nice this room is, it's still a cage. For that matter, where in the hell is Sheriff—" Warrick stopped in mid-step and stared at Greg. "You're eating?"

Greg shrugged and said around a mouthful of steak, "I'm hungry."

"Did you hit your head or something?" Warrick jabbed a finger toward the door. "We're in some secret military installation, being held without charges, without a phone call, and without a goddamned explanation. Doesn't that worry you just a little bit?"

Greg shook his head as the fork full of potatoes hovered halfway between his mouth and the plate. "Nope. Not really," he said, then shoveled the potatoes into his mouth.

Defeated, Warrick fell into the other chair at the table and said, "Okay Greg. Spill. You know something, don't you?"

"Maybe."

"So… what?"

"Well, you know that gauntlet on the DB?"

Warrick's eyes narrowed in suspicion and growing impatience. "What about it?"

"Did you notice that General Mustang had a similar design on his leather gloves? And the big guy—"

"Lt. Colonel Armstrong, right."

"Yeah. He had something like it, too."

"What are you hinting at? These guys are part of some secret organization? Like…" Warrick smirked and barked out a short laugh, "the Illuminati?"

Greg scowled and swallowed the last mouthful of steak. "Of course not. Jeeze. Everyone knows the Illuminati are a myth." He returned the lid to the tray and pushed it away from him. Then he pointed at Warrick's still-untouched dinner and said, "You gonna eat that?"

Warrick rolled his eyes and pushed it over to the younger man. "So what's your theory, then?"

"Well, the symbols within the circles looked familiar, but at first I figured it was a coincidence and the DB was just into the mystic stuff and probably didn't really know what they represented," Greg said as he sliced into the second steak. "But then, I saw the salamander inside the circle on the General's glove and it hit me… these guys are for real."

"Salamander?" Warrick said as he shook his head in confusion. "Greg, what in the hell are you going on about?"

Greg blinked, stunned, then he said, "According to Paracelsus, the salamander was a fire elemental." At Warrick's blank look, Greg said, "Well, his original name wasPhilippus Theophrastus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim, you might've heard of that one…" When Warrick's expression didn't register any recognition at the name, Greg sighed, gestured at the door with both hands and said, "Fireballs? The General has a salamander inside a circle on his glove?"

"Greg? Pretend I have absolutely no clue of what you're talking about --which I don't, by the way—and just come out with it."

The younger man threw his hands up in frustration, then said, "Dude! Alchemy. These guys are modern-day alchemists."

Warrick stared for a long moment, then groaned and fell back in his seat. "You worry me."

"What?"

"No really, you worry me, Greg." Warrick jumped to his feet and started pacing again.

"I'm serious Warrick, they're—"

Warrick put up a hand and said, "Stop. Just… stop. I can't deal with your conspiracy theories right now."

Greg shrugged and went back to eating. "Suit yourself, but when you find out I'm right--"

"Greg," Warrick said warningly, and Greg took it as his cue to shut up.

Thirty minutes later, Greg was stuffed, had showered and was now reclined on one bed with his back against the wall watching Warrick wear a path in the carpet. Neither of them had spoken a word since Warrick had slapped a moratorium on any theories.

There was a short knock, then a pleasant-looking man in his early thirties, with sharp green eyes behind rectangular glasses and a perpetual five o'clock shadow, entered. Greg came to his feet, but the man waved him off and said, "At ease. Please." He held out a hand to Greg first. "Colonel Maes Hughes. Mr. Sanders."

Greg shook it, then Hughes turned and offered the same greeting to Warrick. "Mr. Brown."

Warrick cast a disdainful glance at the hand, but made no move to return the greeting. Instead, he flopped down on the edge of the other bed and said, "So you're going to tell us why we've been illegally arrested, here?"

Hughes smiled slightly and grabbed a chair from the table, spun it around and set it in the middle of the room between the two CSIs. He straddled the seat and folded his arms over the backrest. "You haven't been arrested, Mr. Brown. We only want to know what you know about General Grand's murder."

"And if we decide not to cooperate?"

Hughes shrugged. "You're free to walk out of here. No one will stop you." He nodded at the door. "That door was never locked."

"Walk out under our own power and get lost in the desert, you mean."

"That's always a possibility, of course."

"And if we cooperate?"

"We make sure you get back home. Safe and sound."

"But the evidence stays," Warrick said. "I assume your people have all of it, right?"

"Everything you'd collected, yes."

"Why cover it up? I'd think you'd want to know what happened to one of your own."

"We already know what happened to him, Mr. Brown. We've been tracking this killer for awhile now. But we need to keep this in-house."

"He used some prototype weapon you're developing?"

Hughes looked down at the floor as though he were struggling to come to a decision. After a long moment he glanced back up at Warrick and with a sigh got to his feet. "Come with me."

Greg and Warrick followed Hughes down another level of the complex and through another maze of corridors. As they rounded yet another corner, Hughes said, "I apologize for all the cloak and dagger shit, but for the uninitiated, it's difficult to explain exactly what we're dealing with—"

"I heard you got promoted, Hughes," a slimy voice said from behind them, and Greg spun to see a tall, thin man with the eyes of a predator. He was wearing desert fatigue pants, but only an undershirt, and didn't have the air of someone willingly in the military.

"Kimblee," Hughes spat and any hint of the affable man of a moment ago was completely gone; replaced by a hardened soldier.

Kimblee smirked. "I'm surprised that the _General_ allowed your lips off his ass long enough to play tour guide."

"I'd heard someone took you down in Afghanistan."

Kimblee _tsked_ and sauntered up to the three men. As his hard amber eyes raked over first Warrick then Greg, he said, "Like it would be that easy." He glanced at Hughes, shrugged and smiled arrogantly. "They wouldn't let me do what I do best, so I came home." He zeroed in on Greg again and took a step closer. To Greg's surprise, the man sniffed deeply and closed his eyes as though he'd just smelled the most expensive perfume in the world. "Hmmmm. You're a little low on iron, pale boy, but you'll do nicely."

"Stand down, Kimblee," Hughes ordered, but Kimblee ignored him and reached out for Greg's shoulder. The younger CSI could see the circle, triangle and stylized half-moon tattooed into the palm just before a silver flash zipped past his nose and flung Kimblee's hand back.

The thunder of running boots pounding down the corridor toward them was almost drowned out by Kimblee's cursing as he clamped his right hand tightly around his left wrist. "You sycophantic twit! Do you know how long it's going to take for this to heal?" he said as he steadied his bleeding left hand, palm up –which was now sporting a wide, saw-toothed blade right through the center of the half-moon tattoo.

"Let's hope it leaves a nice scar, Crimson," said a tall, blonde soldier as he held a gun to Kimblee. Three other soldiers surrounded the injured man with their weapons trained on him while a shorter, stocky red-head slapped a pair of manacles on Kimblee that had a metal rod as a stretcher between the cuffs.

"Get his ass to the infirmary," Hughes said, as the red-head gave Kimblee a thump in the back of his shoulder to get him moving. "And don't take your eyes off of him."

The red-head saluted, then shoved Kimblee again and said, "Come on, Crimson, we got your favorite room reserved just for you."

"And I want that back, Breda," Hughes called as the group marched off. The red-head –Breda—waved acknowledgement, but Hughes never noticed, as he'd turned an intense glare at the tall blonde soldier who'd stayed behind. "How in the bloody hell did that psychopath manage to get this far, Havoc?"

"Sorry, sir. He triggered a cascade failure in the sensor grid; had the patrol chasing their tails while he slipped the net."

Greg noticed that Warrick was staring hard at Havoc, as if he looked familiar, but the CSI couldn't quite place him.

Hughes turned and the four of them strode on down the corridor, as he said, "We need to get that security grid back up immediately, Captain."

"The major's already on it, sir."

Hughes winced and smiled. "I sure as hell wouldn't want to be the poor soul on the other end of that line," he said as the stopped at a door. "Gentlemen," he said to Warrick and Greg as he opened the door and waved them in.

As Warrick passed by Havoc, he said, "Weren't you driving the truck?" Havoc merely shrugged and Warrick scowled. "Let me guess, that Hummer never made it back to the crime lab, did it?"

"Well, it made it back to _a_ lab," Havoc said. "Nice job wrapping it up, by the way."

Greg could have sworn he heard Warrick growl.

The two CSIs entered what appeared to be the main operations of the complex, which was currently buzzing with the controlled mayhem of uniformed soldiers barking a confusion of orders into their headsets while monitors overhead flashed from one scene to another in rapid succession. In the center of it all was the coolly professional blonde women who'd pointed a gun at Warrick earlier.

"—I don't care if they'd just come off of a 20 mile hike in full gear and haven't even had a shower, roust them out of their bunks and get them out on the perimeter, now. We have more of them coming in and some of them are just as dangerous as Kimblee." She glanced up at Hughes, saluted swiftly, then went back to what she was doing. "I don't want anyone to so much as sneeze without you telling us, do you understand soldier?"

Hughes led Greg and Warrick to another room that was much smaller and quieter, with a large screen on the wall and a computer keyboard embedded into the tabletop. There was one seat, currently occupied by a short, geekish Sergeant and a couple of other chairs in the room, but nothing else.

The sergeant snapped to attention as soon as he saw them enter, but Hughes was far more casual. "Sergeant Fuery," he said, "you're due for a break, aren't you?" Fuery shot a quick glance at Greg and Warrick, then understanding, he nodded and exited the room. Hughes turned to Havoc and said, "Captain, make sure we're not interrupted." Once the door was closed, he settled into the seat at the console and invited the other two men to take the remaining chairs on either side of him.

Warrick hesitated. "Why do I get the feeling this is turning into a bad spy movie, here?"

"I tell you, then I kill you?" Hughes said.

"Something like that, yeah."

"I assure you, Mr. Brown," Hughes said as he turned to the console and started taping the keys, "You'll leave here very much alive."

"So why share classified information with us?"

"Who's gonna believe us?" Greg said.

"Don't tell me you're still going on about that conspiracy shit, Greg," Warrick snapped. "You trying to tell me that these people are using a military complex to turn lead into gold?"

"Actually," Hughes said as he hit the enter key, "that's taboo."

The large screen on the wall flared to life with a circle and a complex series of symbols within as Greg said, "It more than that, Warrick. Alchemy was the science of the time, and connected to the spirit. It was a way to get closer to God."

On the screen, the image faded out and was replaced by a photo of a dark-skinned, grey-haired man with eyes of an unusual shade of red. To one side of the photo, the screen was split in two. In the top section, a 3-dimensional full body shot panned in 360, showing the man's athletic build and the tribal style tattoos which covered his entire right arm. Below that, stats scrolled up the screen.

"Until the church declared it heresy, then it went underground," Hughes added, then gave Greg and appraising look. "So you've read some of the texts?"

Greg chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, a friend of mine gave me a couple of them as a joke when I graduated high school. I've collected a few more on my own."

Warrick glanced from Greg to Hughes and back again, incredulous. "You're kidding, right?"

Instead of answering, Hughes smirked and pulled up another file. This one was of the same man, but it was video of him in action. His physique wasn't for show, the man was using specialized, and quite efficient, hand-to-hand techniques that took down several soldiers who tried to come at him at once. Not a single move was unnecessary, yet it was graceful and smooth. It was a deadly dance that sent a shiver up Greg's spine.

Finally, the man had made it through the gauntlet of soldiers and slammed his right palm into a wall. There was a quick flash of reddish light, and Warrick said, "Wait a minute, did that guy's arm just—" then he went mute as the wall exploded into dust.

The screen faded to black and the room was silent for a long moment.

"Woah," Greg said softly.

"That, gentlemen, is our killer," Hughes said. "He was one of our own until a couple of years ago, when he snapped and disappeared. He's been taking out alchemists one by one ever since and every time we get close, he disappears like a shadow at high noon."

"What in the hell _is_ that?" Warrick exploded. He lurched to his feet and jerked Hughes up by the collar with him. "Are you doing some sort of bio-engineering here? Turning people into weapons?!"

Just as quickly, Greg was up and trying to wedge himself between the two men. "Warrick, chill. This isn't going to get us home alive, dude."

"We never were going home alive, Greg. We were never going home at all." Warrick focused on Hughes, who was remaining remarkably calm. "We were just going to disappear into some government black hole and never be heard from again. Weren't we?"

There was a sound of snapping fingers and suddenly Warrick's hand flashed with a brief flame. He and Greg both yelped and jumped back, instinctively checking themselves for more sparks from a fire that had already extinguished itself.

"I would appreciate it if you could refrain from mauling one of my best officers, Mr. Brown," Mustang said as he sauntered the rest of the way into the room.

Hughes wiped at the singe spots on his uniform and then his chin, which was devoid of stubble in one small spot now. "Your aim's a bit off there, Roy."

"Gracia told me she prefers you clean shaven anyway, Maes." Mustang faced Warrick, who was shaking his burned hand, and said, "The sting will fade in a few minutes and you won't even have a red mark." He crossed the small room, leaned back against the console with his arms crossed and regarded the two CSIs a moment. "Nobody is being used for bio-weapons research, gentlemen. Everyone who joins the alchemist program does so under their own power and with full disclosure."

"Then what?" Warrick asked. "They spend the rest of their lives living in this underground complex like moles?"

"On the contrary. Usually this place is running on minimal support. We're under a high-alert status right now."

"Because of one man?"

"That one man is singling out and killing alchemists." Mustang waved at the empty seats and said, "Please. Sit down. We're going to be here awhile." When neither Greg, nor Warrick made a move, Mustang smiled and said, "Look at it this way, if you listen to me ramble on, it delays your trip down into that 'government black hole'." Greg and Warrick glanced at each other, but neither man budged. "That was a joke."

"You need to work on your delivery, Roy."

Mustang scowled good-naturedly at Hughes and said, "Isn't there someone in the complex you haven't inflicted pictures of Elysia on?"

The light banter between Hughes and Mustang was going a long way toward easing the current tensions in the room, and as Greg began to relax again, his observations were becoming clearer. From the beginning, the two of them had been lured in deeper and deeper, and now Greg was certain it wasn't just an effort to keep them silent.

"You could've just taken all the evidence and left us at the scene," Warrick said. "After all, if we talked, we'd lose our credibility. So what's really going on here?"

A look passed between Hughes and Mustang, then the General rubbed a hand down his face, and that was when Greg noticed the man had shadows under his eyes and tension lines around his mouth, and knew he hadn't been sleeping.

Mustang was silent a moment, as if he were measuring his words very carefully before he said them. "We… _I_ need your help," he said, finally.

* * *

**Present:**

Gil, Sara, Catherine and Nick sat around the table in the break room in silence; each lost in their own thoughts. What miniscule bits of evidence any of them could find concerning the disappearance of two of their own and a small town sheriff had been delivered to trace and it was a waiting game, now.

Even with the toughest of cases, Gil had always, _always_, kept the rest of the team focused and hopeful. When the odds were stacked against them… when there appeared to be almost no evidence… Gil Grissom pushed and bent and twisted the team's minds --forced them outside of the box-- and they would find their answers.

He was the glue that made them a cohesive unit –and even he was silent right now.

Gil being quiet wasn't that out of the ordinary; Nick was used to it and had learned to read the quality of the man's silences, but this time there was a difference. There was always a light in his eyes as the gears in his mind turned and that was currently missing. Nick figured he could chalk it up to fatigue –they were all starting their next shift and none of them had clocked out from the last one-- but there was also a sense of waiting.

Sofia Curtis came in --looking positively chipper compared to the rest of the team, but that wasn't saying much. She'd been called to a scene where a child had been hit by a car and thrown through the windshield. Not a pretty sight –even worse when it was a kid.

The tall blonde took one look around the table as she pulled out a chair and sagged. "Nothing, huh?"

Sara groaned softly and dropped her head down on her folded arms on the table; Catherine sighed and closed her eyes; Nick slouched back in his seat and slid down a ways… Gil remained as he was, as though he hadn't heard a thing.

Sofia winced. "Damn," she muttered.

Catherine gave her a tired smile and said, "Tell me _you_ at least have good news? I know I could use it."

Sofia hesitated a moment, then said. "Open and shut. The driver wasn't negligent; the kid just came out of nowhere. We're just waiting to ID him."

Archie Johnson chose that moment to poke his head in the door and he was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Griss? You'll want to take a look at this."

* * *

Doctor Al Robbins let most of David's yammering go in one ear and out the other as they headed down the corridor. The young man was a damn good assistant ME, but his theories were… crack-pot, to put it mildly. David was generally pretty good about keeping the conspiracy speculation to a minimum most days, but with the disappearance of Warrick and Greg so close to Area 51 and under such mysterious circumstances, it seemed that his imagination was running at warp-speed.

Doc Robbins didn't say anything; preferring to just let David ramble. They all handled stress in their own ways, this one just happened to be the assistant ME's. Besides, he had to admit, it was rather amusing just how far out into the ozone David could go with his theories, and Lord knew he needed it right now.

There still wasn't any word on Warrick and Greg's locations and Al was doing his damndest not to think the worst. It was hard though, with no ransom as of yet and no clue. Two of their best were gone, just like that. Bad enough that they were members of the team, but Warrick and Greg were friends… family, even.

Doc Robbins' hand rested on the door of the autopsy room and cast a long-suffering glance back at the assistant ME. "David, they'll find Warrick and Greg and there will be a perfectly rational explanation of how they disappeared," he said, as much to convince himself as to convince David.

"Don't you think it's a little weird that there's no evidence, though?"

The senior ME sighed. He knew David wasn't going to think otherwise until all the facts were in and staring him right in the face –but he tried… he tried. "There's always evidence, David," he said as he pushed the door open… and promptly had his feet shoot out from underneath him.

"Doc!" David blurted and bent to help Al up. As soon as the man was upright and steady, he'd waved off his assistant who seemed intent on dusting him off. "You okay?" David asked.

Doc Robbins was more interested in the trail of water on the floor, but ground out, "The only injury is to my pride, which is far better than what maintenance is going to suffer when I get through with them."

"What a mess," David said as his eyes followed the trail. "Uh—"

Doc Robbins saw the empty table just as David did and sagged. "Not another one."

"Why would someone steal a dead kid?"

"Maybe he was late for a party?"

* * *

Gil leaned over Archie's shoulder as the photo-analyst pulled of one of the aerial shots of the crime scene that had been taken during the search, then added filters and adjusted the resolution –explaining as he went. "I couldn't understand why you wanted me to analyze a shot of the ground," Archie said. "I mean, I went through filter after filter and there was nothing there but a bare patch. But then…" He set a blue filter over the photograph and suddenly a faint shadow appeared that wasn't there before.

The rest of the team had followed Gil and were watching as well, and Nick said, "That could still just be a natural formation."

Gil's eyes narrowed as he studied the shot and he shook his head. "No, there's a definite pattern there."

Archie smiled and nodded then tapped out a series of commands on the keyboard. "That was my thought, too. So I simulated a polarizing filter…" As he demonstrated, the pattern became more pronounced, then clearly visible…

…of a large circle with a series of triangles, a stylized flame at the top and—

"What is that? Some sort of lizard?" Nick asked.

Gil's head tilted as he studied the image. "No… I think that's—"

"It's a salamander."

Gil spun at the familiar voice to see Warrick leaning tiredly against the door frame and Greg next to him with a cockier than usual grin on his face. A million things soared through his mind that he wanted to say to the two men --colleagues and friends-- but all he could do was stare as his mouth flapped like a beached fish.

Not that it mattered; the rest of the team had swarmed around their prodigal teammates and voiced everything he couldn't at the moment.

Gil let the welcome-homes, back-slapping and hugs go on, feeling tangible relief fill the room. Partly because it gave him a moment to slow his own thoughts down and partly because everyone needed to dump all the fear and worry out of their system.

When everyone had settled down, Warrick elbowed Greg and nodded at the photo on the screen. "That is one arrogant son of a bitch."

Greg smirked.

Gil glanced from one man to the other and finally found his voice. "So? What happened to you two?"

Warrick went serious, held up a mini disc and said, "We need to talk."

* * *

Roy sat on a bench outside the hangar that disguised the entrance of a vast underground complex in small patch of desert in the middle of a large Air Force base that had been called Area 51 for decades. As the sun rose, casting the desert landscape in hues of rose and purple and mahogany and gold, he could hear the climbing whine of jet engines starting up in the distance as experimental aircraft was being tested.

All too soon, the desert would be unbearably hot and washed-out, but for now, Roy could enjoy the cool air, the muted colors, a cup of hot coffee, and the reminder that sometimes he wasn't as significant as he would like to think. The world that Roy Mustang knew was on the brink of change, and whenever he'd reached points in his life such as this, it had always amazed him and humbled him that the Earth herself didn't even blink.

This time, however, Roy couldn't help but think that she should be. The decision he'd come to a few years ago; the plans he'd made, were coming to fruition, and he knew the impact would be far-reaching.

He heard Maes approaching from behind and couldn't help the smile. The man almost never managed to catch the sunrise when he could avoid it, preferring to steal every moment he could with his wife and daughter. Roy knew his old friend must really be rattled at the past 24 hour's events if he was joining him outside this time of day.

Maes settled onto the bench next to him, and sat in silence for a long moment. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands were clasped and he was staring down at the ground. Roy's smile faded at the other man's posture –this couldn't be good news.

Maes finally turned to Roy, but not lifting his head. "I got a report from Intel. Miami-Dade police just tried to run two sets of prints through AFIS and got locked out."

"Ours?"

Maes nodded. "The first one was Envy."

Roy saw Maes hesitate and his folded hands clench in an effort at control. "The other set?" he asked, but he already knew the answer… or thought he did.

Maes swallowed, then said, "Ed's."

Roy gripped the edge of the bench tightly because it suddenly felt like it had disappeared from under him. "How?"

Maes shook his head. "We don't know yet." He faced Roy again and sat straight, his green eyes gone hard. "You wanted to go public. Looks like you got your wish."

Roy brushed his hand down his face and sighed. "How soon can you get out there?"

Maes got to his feet, and said, "I've already got the jet warming up, but it'll take four or five hours. Best we can hope for is damage control."

"Keep me apprised, Maes."

Maes patted Roy's shoulder and left without another word.


	5. Truth, Lies and In Between

**A/N: **Sorry it took so long to get this up. Seems the servers here didn't want to play nice for awhile.**  
**

**Sit Vis Tecum**

**Chapter Four**

"**Truth, Lies and In-Between"**

Something was not sitting right with Horatio Caine. From the mysterious circumstances in which Shou Tucker had died, to discovering Nina and a tank of synthesized amniotic fluid in the basement, to bringing in the two rather enigmatic teenaged boys currently sitting in Interrogation Room One, it had been one bizarre, surrealistic day that Horatio would not soon forget. That it culminated with discovering there existed a branch of the military which was loosely connected to Homeland Security and somehow able to get around age requirements to conscript _children_ added to the growing list of things-that-should-not-be. This last alarmed and infuriated him, but even that wasn't what sent that tingling sensation up the back of his neck to make the short hairs stand on end.

He knew the _cause_ of his disquiet; it was Hughes. He just couldn't pin down _why_. Yet. Horatio had taken an immediate disliking to the man, even though he'd not been given an _obvious_ reason to. Hughes appeared friendly and even seemed to be concerned for the welfare of the Elric brothers, but there was something disingenuous about it.

As was standard, the Elrics were given time alone with their advocate –the attorney/client privilege that was their right. No one outside the interrogation room could hear what was being said between the three of them.

That didn't mean they couldn't still be observed, however –and Horatio was watching very closely.

When Hughes had first entered the room, both boys were genuinely happy to see him --which meant that there was more to his relationship with them than as an advocate-- but within five minutes, the atmosphere had begun to change. To the casual observer, it was little more than an adult authority figure pacing back and forth scolding a couple of mischievous kids, but there was something off about the whole scene playing out in front of Horatio. While Hughes was the same as before, the Elrics body language grew less relaxed and casual and moved to wary rather than recalcitrant. Both of them were sitting straighter and fidgeting less --and while they were studiously _not_ glancing at each other, subtle hand movements under the table passed rapid-fire communication between them in a language only two brothers could share.

The change that came over the two boys was remarkable. Edward's cockiness was gone; replaced by sense of waiting. _Like a lion in the tall grass. _The shift in Alphonse's demeanor was startling, though. What Horatio thought was a very young boy --nervous, sensitive, naïve—had become poised and calm, with a determined set to his shoulders and unwavering gaze.

Neither he nor Eric said a word to each other as they leaned against the half-wall dividing interrogation from the rest of the main squad room, and while on the surface they appeared relaxed, both men were coiled and ready to spring in an instant.

At Horatio's request, and under mild protest, Frank had quietly cleared the squad room of all civilians and only kept the bare minimum of uniforms. "I hope you know what you're doing, Horatio," he said softly when he rejoined the other two.

Horatio watched as Edward shot a quick sideways glance at his younger brother. "Frank, if I'm wrong, the responsibility is all mine," he responded as he reached back to unsnap the strap over his sidearm and without taking his eyes off the three people in interrogation.

He and Eric moved on the room the instant they saw the boys shift back in their seats, but they weren't fast enough. It was obvious by how rapidly the Elric brothers sprung, that they were highly trained… but in what, was a different story. Horatio only saw Edward launch himself off the table at Hughes and Alphonse clap his hands as he charged at the door. Just before the boy's palms slapped the glass, his eyes met Horatio's and he mouthed a silent, "Sorry, Mr. Horatio."

A blinding flash and static electricity arced off the bullet-resistant glass and caused both men to jerk back and instinctively throw up their free arms over their faces. When Horatio blinked the spots out of his eyes, he found the clear walls were now opaque… and the door was fused shut. The sound of glass shattering as a body crashed into the table, angered shouts and an insane cackle erupted from the room as the scuffle began in earnest.

"We need to find a way to get in there right now," Horatio ordered as he, Eric and Frank all cast about for something heavy enough to break through the wall. Neither of them dared to shoot at one of the panels; even though it had polycarbonate thermoplastic sandwiched between two layers of glass there was still the possibility that a bullet at close range could completely pierce the wall and strike one of the boys.

Frank shouted for a battering ram at the same time someone slammed into the wall from the inside, bowing it out almost to the breaking point and rattling the frame. Two officers arrived in short order and battered at the panel that had been weakened as the sound of a small explosion went off along with the bone-crunching thud of someone slamming into cinderblock. On the second hit with the ram, the spider-webbed cracks in the bullet-resistant glass spread to the frame and the panel crumpled inward as the section next to it crazed, folded and a small, sandy-haired form tumbled out onto the floor at Horatio's feet.

Frank, Eric and the two uniforms went in with guns drawn as Horatio helped Alphonse to his feet. The child twisted, spun, and readied a death-dealing blow, until he realized who it was. He flashed a quick, sheepish grin, then started to charge back into the fray, but Horatio snagged his collar and brought him up short. "Let the police handle it, Alphonse."

And it was then he realized that it had become very quiet.

He put Alphonse behind him and cautiously crept forward with his gun out. Several possibilities went though his mind, the best outcome was that everyone was relatively uninjured and subdued, the worst was that one or both of the people in the room were dead.

What he saw would have never occurred to him in his wildest nightmares.

"Which one is which?" Frank said.

Alphonse peeked past Horatio and groaned. "Oh, no."

'Hughes' was nowhere to be seen, but somehow, beyond all logic and reason, there was an extra Edward. Both of them were perfectly identical, all the way down to the blood-stains on their clothes and dripping from various injuries, to the matching blades that protruded from the metal prosthetics on their right arms and hovered dangerously close to the jugular of his mirror, to the murderous glare in their gold eyes as they stood frozen in a stand-off.

"Get the hell out of here, Al!" one of them shouted.

"Shut the fuck up, Envy."

"I'm not Envy, you bastard."

Alphonse sighed, then said, "Mr. Horatio, just shoot the biggest one. The real Ed's shorter."

Horatio darted a completely baffled glance down at the boy, not believing what he heard –especially since both Edwards were the same height-- but before he could say a word, both Edwards started fuming, glared at Alphonse and shouted in stereo, "I'm not short, dammit!"

Alphonse groaned again, then muttered "Why is it always left to me to fix these messes?" Then he zipped out of reach and sprung at the twin Edwards.

Lightning swift, one of them went wide-eyed, ducked just in time to avoid losing his head to his mirror and strong-armed Alphonse into a wall in one smooth motion.

Horatio took the opening and squeezed the trigger. The bullet was through and through; right between the eyes and embedding itself into the window behind his target. Blood and brains splattered all over the wall, the window and the remaining Edward; blood sprayed the ceiling and walls and the officers closest to the body as it convulsed, twitched, then sagged to the floor.

As Horatio knelt next to the two boys, the activity around them went into overdrive. He heard Frank calling Calleigh and Ryan down with their kits and Eric calling for Alexx as he squatted next to the body. Horatio was already working out just what the hell he was going to tell Internal Affairs about this mess, because he knew that was coming. _And just how does someone convince IAD that the perpetrator was a shape-shifter? _He wasn't even certain _he_ believed what had just happened.

Edward –and Horatio was certain it was the real one at this point—slid down the wall, clapped softly and ran his left hand over the dagger on his right, making it retract, then crawled over to his younger brother, who was laying in a limp heap on the floor. "Al. Al!"

Alphonse moaned, stirred, then glared at his older brother. "Do you have to yell?"

Instead of being relieved, Edward yanked his brother up by the collar and shouted, "You idiot! Were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?!"

Alphonse, for his part, got nose to nose with the older boy and shouted back, "Don't call me an idiot, idiot! How the hell else was anyone supposed to tell you from Envy?"

The words and the situation were out of the ordinary, but the argument was still the same; the older brother's anger wasn't actual anger, but fear for the younger's welfare, and the younger brother's response was to feeling overprotected. _How many of these fights did Ray and I have when we were growing up?_

* * *

Eric felt at the body's throat to make certain it was dead. He had little doubt of the fact, since half its brains were dripping down the window behind them right now, but it was SOP; _trust but verify_. He was reluctant to touch it at first; the _thing_ --and he couldn't really think of it as human, no matter how hard he tried-- made his skin crawl, but he swallowed down his gorge and forced himself to do his job.

It had just died, yet its flesh felt colder than it should have and the blank, staring eyes that were originally gold had turned a flat red-violet. Amidst the cacophony of noise around him, Eric heard a subtle, wet sound that made the hair on his arms rise with prickling gooseflesh. He stopped breathing and his eyes slid down to the retreating pool of blood around the body. He glanced back at the lifeless face again and felt a surge of abject terror shoot through him when he realized its eyes were no longer flat, but very much alive and filled with malice. A slow, cold grin spread too far across its face as its skull reformed and the entry wound closed, clearly enjoying the fear it was striking in the CSI.

Eric tried desperately to find his voice, but all that came out were harsh, shallow gasps as the horror deepened and the thing's face changed in front of him to a familiar and very heartbreaking one. "M-marisol?" he whispered.

"What's the matter, little brother? Not happy to see me?" it said in Marisol's voice… but his sister had never sounded so sinister.

What felt like a ten-ton wrecking ball slammed into Eric's side, throwing him down just as 'Marisol' snapped upright and thrust out with one arm. At that point, it was pinned and hidden under two uniforms.

"Delko!" Ryan's voice broke through Eric's shocked haze and he forced himself to focus on the friendly face. "You okay, man?"

Eric swallowed and after a moment's hesitation, nodded.

"Cuff that bastard and get him out of here," Frank ordered as the cops pulled the shape-shifter to its feet. There was a surge of static around it and the cops instinctively lurched back. The thing changed once more into a rather slight androgynous form with long dark hair, a genderless outfit of black spandex shorts and top, and a red tattoo on its left thigh. As it transformed, it took the opportunity given by the startled cops and spun on them. Faster than anyone could react, it ripped the arm off one man as he was raising his gun with a jerk and kick to the man's mid-section and then pinned the other officer to the wall with its fist sunk deep into the man's shoulder halfway up its forearm –except the fist wasn't made of flesh any longer.

The monster zeroed in on Horatio and said, "Keep looking over your shoulder, Caine. You never know when I'll be there." Then he grinned at Edward. "Hate to kick your ass and run, Pipsqueak, but I have better things to do."

With a sickening crunch, it yanked its arm out of the officer and caught him as he slumped, unconscious. It tossed the larger man over his shoulders as if he were nothing. "Have fun explaining all this to these halfwits." And with that, he crashed through the window with his hostage and took off.

The room exploded in confusion as Eric drew his gun and ran to the window. Frank could be heard shouting into the radio to the officers handling crowd control downstairs and outside. "Protect the civilians. The suspect is extremely dangerous and using one of our men as a hostage. Do not engage, I repeat, do _not _engage!"

Incensed, Eric started out the window, but was grabbed from behind and yanked rudely back, as Ryan said, "Don't be stupid, Eric." Reality and common sense resurfaced and Eric relaxed enough that Ryan let go of him.

"Edward!"

"Brother!"

Eric heard Horatio and Alphonse just as he sensed movement at his side and then he tackled Edward before the boy made the same mistake he was about to. The kid was more flexible than a snake, but Eric had bulk and experience on his side as he flipped Edward over and placed a hold on him that he couldn't escape from. "Bad idea, kid."

Around him, he could hear Calleigh and Alexx performing triage on the injured cop, Horatio calling for EMT, Frank giving a bulletin on the suspect to dispatch for the patrol cops and Ryan talking softly to Alphonse. _Probably keeping him from diving out the window, too_, Eric thought as he held fast to the furiously trembling boy beneath him.

"He's going to kill that cop," Edward said in a voice caught somewhere between rage and fear.

It was at the front of everyone's mind, but no one had voiced it until now. They all suspected that it was the shape-shifter who'd already killed three cops and now it had just ended the career of another. No one had any hope whatsoever that it would keep its hostage alive for any longer than he was needed. "I know," Eric said, his voice cracking. "But you're not going to help him by going off half-cocked."

Edward's struggle escalated. "I know the bastard," he hissed.

Eric held tight, although it wasn't easy. "And what about your kid brother? What's he gonna do if you get yourself killed?"

That was all it took. Edward went limp under him but Eric heard a muttered, "That was a cheap shot, asshole."

"You're welcome," Eric chuckled as he loosened his hold.

"How in the hell did that guy do that?" Ryan stammered as he stared down out the window.

Both Eric and Edward jumped up and peered down at the shattered concrete one storey below them. A moment later, Horatio had joined them. "I'd say the suspect has made quite an impression, hasn't he?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, EMT had taken the injured officer and people were being allowed back in the building, although they were all steered well out of sight of the destruction. Nearby, Edward and Alphonse sat quietly on a bench next to Ryan and a disturbingly pale Eric. Frank was off to one side debriefing the officers who'd witnessed everything, and Calleigh was finishing up collecting evidence.

Horatio took Alexx aside and said, "I don't think either of those boys is badly injured, Alexx, but I would feel better if you examined them. I don't think sending them to the ER is a good idea right now."

"Horatio, what in God's name is going on around here?"

"I don't know. But I mean to find out." As Calleigh exited the disaster that was once Interrogation Room One, Horatio caught her and said, "This evidence is first priority, Calleigh."

"Lt. Caine?" queried a mild voice that sent a chill down Horatio's spine.

He and Calleigh spun, drawing their weapons as Eric and Ryan came to their feet.

In an instant, the mild-looking man with rectangle glasses and wearing an Army uniform was staring down the barrels of four guns. He dropped the briefcase and slowly raised his hands. "Uh… I'm Colonel Maes Hughes? I'm the Elric's advocate." He cautiously pointed toward the breast pocket of the uniform jacket and said, "If you'll let me, I can show you ID."

Horatio cocked the hammer back on his gun and said, "Your ID was authentic earlier, Colonel Hughes. I need something better than that."

"E-earlier?" Hughes' eyes darted sideways, confusion and dismay written all over his face as he took in the devastation of the interrogation room. "Oh hell," he mumbled.

Edward and Alphonse sidled up to the group and Edward said, "Check the pocket of his shirt, Lt. Caine."

Hughes didn't protest as Horatio unbuttoned the top of the jacket and felt in the breast pocket of the shirt. He pulled out a photograph, flipped it around so he could see it and suppressed a smile. It was of a little girl with short, frizzy pigtails and covered in fingerpaints. She was grinning proudly at the photographer and Horatio could certainly see the resemblance to the man in front of him. "Who is this?" Horatio asked.

The instant the question left his lips, he knew the man in front of him was genuine. No sociopath could ever act quite as enamored over a child that wasn't his. "That's my precious Elysia! Isn't she adorable! I swear, she's an artistic genius, in fact we're planning to have that picture framed."

"Okay! Okay!" Edward complained, although there was a relaxed and amused tone to it. "You're really Hughes, we get it."

Everyone else relaxed, and Hughes was suddenly quite a bit less manic as he gazed over the mess, then sighed and faced the brothers once more. The expression was very paternal, something that had been missing on the shape-shifter earlier. "Lt. Caine, have your men finished processing the scene?"

"Yes they have, Colonel. Why do you ask?"

Instead of answering, Hughes took a quick glance around the squad room, seemed satisfied, then faced the boys again and jerked his head at the damage. "You know how Roy gets if he has to handle the paperwork on this kinda thing."

"General Useless needs more work to do," Edward said. "It keeps him out of our business."

"Not when we're the reason for the extra paperwork, Brother," Alphonse said.

"Consider it a good-will gesture to the Miami-Dade police department," Hughes added.

With a broad grin from Alphonse and grudging compliance from Edward, the boys waved everyone back, then clapped their hands and dropped to their knees as they slapped the floor. In a shower of light and excited particles, the blood faded, the glass table melded back together, and the broken windows reformed and returned to their former state. Within two minutes, Interrogation Room One looked as though it had never held madness and mayhem within its walls.

"I'm… speechless," Horatio said after a long moment.

Hughes smirked. "Yeah, those boys tend to do that when you meet them for the first time. I'm surprised you've managed to get this far without your brain breaking."

Horatio cocked a brow at Hughes and said, "I'm not so certain that hasn't happened, Colonel Hughes."


	6. Need to Know

**WARNING: One scene is rife with horror elements and dark sexual suggestions, so if this kind of thing bothers you, don't read, please.  
**

**Sit Vis Tecum  
Chapter Five:**  
"**Need to Know"**

Everyone had managed to cram themselves into Gil's office once Warrick handed the minidisk over. Warrick and Greg took the seats on the other side of the desk –having already seen what was on it-- but Catherine, Sara and Nick tried to wedge themselves in behind it in order to watch over Gil's shoulder. This elicited a mildly annoyed glance over said shoulder and the group taking a reluctant step back. Sophia wisely chose to perch on the corner of the desk out of the way of the overly curious, but within view of the monitor and Archie hung back behind Warrick and Greg. Hodges wandered in, curious, and stood next to Archie. Right on his heels, Wendy showed up and smiled when Hodges shot her a dirty look.

Jim poked his head in, zeroed in on the prodigal sons and grinned. "I heard you two decided to wander back home." He looked them over and added, "You don't look like you were abducted by aliens. So what happened?"

"We were just about to find that out," Gil said as he waved Jim in. "May as well join us for the early show."

Jim cast a glance about the crowded room and chuckled. "Looks like it sold-out. Should I have brought popcorn?"

Gil answered by turning the monitor so that it could be seen by everyone in the room and hit his enter key to run the file. Images of an athletic man with silver hair, red eyes and a detailed tribal-style tattoo up his muscular right arm filled the screen, along with stats and video of his abilities. After that, there was a video highlighting parts of the autopsy on the DB Warrick and Greg had been sent to process, as well as a detailed description of the cause of death. More files on the disk contained the reports, along with information that was to be handed out to patrol officers warning that the suspect was not to be approached if spotted, only to contact a specific phone number with a report of where he'd been seen. The entire case was now under the jurisdiction of the military and the crime lab was being trusted to keep classified information, classified.

Ten minutes later, Gil closed the files and the room was silent. He faced Warrick and Greg and said, "You two have anything to add to this? You were there for over 24 hours, what did you observe?"

Warrick shook his head, clearly still baffled at the experience. "Griss, I can't even begin to come up with a theory that would make any sense." He brushed his hand down his face and dropped his head back tiredly. "What it _looks_ like just defies all science and logic." Warrick focused on Gil again. "They call themselves --if you can believe this-- alchemists."

Greg shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. "They _are_ using the symbols and the arrays," he said. "And General Mustang didn't have any miniature flame-thrower in his hand when he threw that little fire-ball at you."

Warrick threw his hands up and rounded on the younger CSI. "Greg, you cannot possibly believe that all he did was—" he waved a hand barely an inch from Greg's face and snapped his fingers to demonstrate, "--and make that flame! Man, you're a scientist!"

"So how do _you_ explain it?"

Warrick's mouth flapped a moment, then he shook his head, fell back in his seat and grabbed a double handful of his hair in frustration. "I can't. Yet. But that doesn't mean there isn't a _rational_ explanation."

Gil tilted his head, deep in thought a moment, then he looked right at Greg and said, "Was the General wearing gloves when he snapped his fingers?"

"Yeah. Leather." Greg sketched a circle over the top of his own hand and said, "Had the array with the flame and the salamander in it. Just like that picture of the scene Archie enhanced."

"Anyone else have something similar?" Gil asked.

"Yeah, the DB had a chrome gauntlet," Greg said. "And the big dude –Armstrong—he had something like it."

"Then there was the creepy guy who had the circles tattooed on the palms of his hands," Warrick said. "Now there's a real winner."

"No kidding," Greg said with a soft chuff, then an exaggerated shudder. "I didn't know if he was going to kiss me, or kill me."

"So," Gil said, trying to bring the conversation back to the subject before it got too far off, "does everyone have an… _array_?"

Greg shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Nah. Colonel Hughes didn't. Neither did Captain Havoc. I think they might be support staff, or something."

"Asshole," Warrick muttered.

Gil was only mildly surprised at that, but wasn't about to let it go without being addressed. "Excuse me, Warrick? Was there something else you wanted to add?"

Chagrinned, Warrick said, "Havoc. He showed up pretending to be a county tow and stole our evidence."

"Well, it kinda _is_ their jurisdiction in a way," Greg said and everyone stared.

"You sound like you admire them, Greg," Catherine said.

"I do. Sorta." He shrugged and smiled. "They're keeping a dead art alive. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"You don't really believe they're… magic?" Sara said.

"Alchemists, Sara," Greg said. "There's a big difference. They were chemists and philosophers."

"With charmed circles and symbolism. Right." Sara crossed her arms and shook her head.

"It's not that far-fetched, really," Nick said and everyone stared at him, incredulous. He returned the gaze, just as incredulous. "What? A lot of ancient cultures used sympathetic magic in rituals; wear the bear skin and the warrior _became_ the bear. And the hunter-gatherer tribes depended on their other senses more than we do now. It's possible that they had 'senses' that disappeared for most of us as we evolved and didn't need them anymore, but there are some people who kept some of that ability. The number of reports of psychic events can't be completely ignored, you know. And who's to say that the circles and symbols weren't just a focus? Maybe that's what we have here? A group of people who've evolved but kept those particular traits, refined them and made them stronger, somehow?"

Hodges started chuckling, and said, "So what are you saying here? That we have the X-Men running loose in Vegas?"

"More like watching too much Discovery Channel," Sara teased.

There were a few subdued chortles around the room as Nick rolled his eyes in mild annoyance and glared good-naturedly at Sara. "Cute, Sara. For your information, I _didn't_ get that from the Discovery Channel."

"Oh yeah? Where did you get it from?"

Nick nervously carded a hand through his short hair and coughed then mumbled.

"What was that?" Sara said, grinning. "I didn't hear you, there."

With a deep breath, Nick squared his shoulders and said, "It was… the History Channel." More chuckles filled the room and Nick added, indignantly, "_This_ time. You know, I _do_ read things other than the sports pages."

"From an anthropological point of view, Nicky is right," Gil said.

"Oh, come on!" Catherine said, "You can't believe that these people have turned magic into science."

Gil shrugged. "'Any science sufficiently advanced will be indistinguishable from magic.'"

"Arthur C. Clarke," Archie said. "There's actually a plausible technological theory to these alchemists, too."

Catherine held her hands out to Archie and said, "Hard science? Please! It's gotta make more sense than… fairy circles."

"Why not nano technology combined with biotech?" He nodded at the blank monitor and said, "That would explain the glow of that tattoo just before he made the wall explode."

Hodges peered down his nose at Archie and said, "Nick watches too much Discovery Channel and you watch too much Star Trek."

"Hey!" Nick protested.

Hodges continued on, "We're _decades_ from that kind of technology, Archie."

"Not necessarily," Wendy said, which only made Hodges roll his eyes. Wendy glanced from Gil to Archie and back. "For thirty years, people reporting UFO sightings frequently described a flying wing over Nevada, right? Then the military rolls out the B2 Bomber and it fits the description, and coincidentally, it had been in development for thirty years."

Gil's brows shot up. "And this was Area 51," he said. "Regardless of the conspiracy myths, it's been the sight of advanced weapons and aircraft development that the public is never privy to until it's completed."

"Great," Jim said. "We've got a psychopathic serial killer --that _we_ can't touch-- running loose with an experimental weapon in his arm. Who wants to place bets on how long it'll take all the terrorists to find out about it and start a bloody bidding war for his services?"

* * *

Horatio wanted to talk to the Elrics and Colonel Hughes somewhere more private than an interrogation room and he also wanted to make sure those boys hadn't been seriously injured, but taking them to the local emergency room was not an option. Too many prying eyes and too many questions would be asked. The best place he could kill two birds with one stone, therefore, was the morgue. 

Alexx had already been alerted and because Sgt. Decker from IAD had arrived, she was given more than enough time to hide Nina and gather extra medical supplies for the boys. The Internal Affairs investigator's arrival couldn't have been timed better, and Horatio would have to thank Frank later for the assistance in delaying him. By the time the sergeant managed to get to Interrogation Room One, Hughes and the boys were sitting peacefully in a perfectly pristine room while Horatio and Eric hung back outside the door.

Just another day at the Miami-Dade police department and there was no evidence of anything else. Sgt. Decker wasn't entirely mollified, of course, but at the moment there was nothing for him to base his suspicions on. If Horatio Caine had his way, there never would be.

The rest of the team had gone back to work –even Eric, whom Horatio was concerned about. He caught a glimpse of the shape-shifter's form before it changed again and it had shaken him. He could only imagine what seeing Marisol's face on that monster was doing to the younger man. Unfortunately, the incident was one that neither of them could talk to the department psychologist about.

As he led the two brothers and their advocate past DNA, he caught sight of a flustered and harried Natalia as she was shuffling through three unusually tall stacks of reports. He gestured to the three people following him to wait in the corridor and went in to the lab. "Natalia, is there a problem?"

She started and then waved two handfuls of reports. "Horatio, I ran the DNA on that sample three times and it keeps spitting out multiple reports."

He joined her at the counter and lifted a few pages. As he scanned them, he said, "You made sure the equipment was calibrated correctly?"

"Of course!" she snapped, then more calm, "That was the first thing I did… when the printer finally stopped spitting reports out at me." She pointed at one stack. "Those are the first set. When it did it again, I had the equipment checked _again_, and it was calibrated correctly. I even compared it with a sample I'd run the other day and that one came out exactly the same as it did before." She shuffled through the last stack and pulled out several reports. "And none of this makes sense. Every time I ran the sample, I'd get different results and multiple DNA."

"Any hits from CODIS?"

Natalia barked a short, frustrated laugh. "About half of them." She led Horatio over to the computer and pulled up a file.

Horatio read over the information. The DNA belonged to an ex-con who'd fallen off the radar approximately five years before and was presumed dead, although there had been no evidence to support that theory.

"The DNA that matched the records in CODIS are all like this guy. Missing and presumed dead. The rest…" She shrugged. "No idea, but I can imagine that they're all missing too."

"That would seem to be a logical assumption, Natalia," Horatio said as he returned the reports to their stack.

He caught a hint of impassioned whispering outside the lab and glanced up to see Edward glaring up at Colonel Hughes. From the set of the young man's shoulders, the clenched fist and the flexing muscles in his jaw as he ground his teeth, it was clear he vehemently disagreed with whatever the colonel had ordered. Hughes was nowhere nearly as angry, but he was standing firm; the straight back, squared shoulders and hands on his hips said he wasn't about to back down –but Horatio didn't miss the slight knitting of the man's brows that told him Hughes didn't like the order he'd been forced to give the boy.

Then he noticed the pale, wide-eyed expression on Alphonse's face just before he quickly looked away. The object of his fear had been the red substance on the counter –the synthesized amniotic fluid that was harmless in itself, but the center of the mayhem currently plaguing his city.

* * *

She leaned on the wrought iron rail of the third floor balcony in the old roach motel and watched the crowd parading the boulevard down below. The place wasn't _quite_ in the seediest part of Miami, but it was low-rent enough. It was littered with motels and bars and frequented more often than not by college students who didn't have rich parents funding their road trips. So many transients. So many tasty morsels that could never completely satisfy her hunger. 

She sighed at the sound of a wet crunch and cast a glance back into the room. The young man lying cold and naked on the bed was pretty, but he just hadn't had the stamina nor the skills. Too bad. She would have liked to play with him a little longer before handing him over to Gluttony. As it was, he'd worn out long before she was ready and because of that, she had no choice but to kill him and let her partner devour the evidence.

Currently, the rotund creature had finished up the boy's legs and was about to rip his stomach open to get at the steaming, tender entrails. "Gluttony, not on the bed, please."

The creature (and Lust could never think of him as a man, even though he was male) gave her a blank-eyed stare as he slowly processed the simple command, then he grinned hugely and said "Okay, Lust." With that, he grabbed a limp arm and pulled the body onto the floor like he was dragging a rag-doll. There was a brief hesitation as Gluttony tried to remember what he was in the middle of doing, then with a feral growl, chomped half the boy's abdomen in a single bite.

The door banged open, but neither Lust nor Gluttony were startled. Nor was it a surprise who entered with a burden over his shoulders in what appeared to be a laundry bag. Gluttony came up from his meal, face covered in blood and gore and entrails hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he stared longingly at the bundle.

Envy took in the scene and sniffed disdainfully, then dropped the package next to the body. "How long did that one last?"

"Only four hours."

Envy whistled low. "Wow. No wonder he's a snack."

Lust sighed and turned back to the activity outside. The sun had set and the pub-crawlers were getting thicker. Not far away, a live band started playing a hard rock tune that might've given her a headache… except she never got them anymore. "They all become snacks, Envy."

Envy joined her on the balcony and leaned on the rail. In the background, Gluttony had opened up the bundle Envy had tossed him, and _oooooed_ appreciatively. A moment later, the two could hear the wet tearing of flesh and smacking noises as he started to devour the second body.

"Well, the Fullmetal Pipsqueak and his pussy brother found Tucker's place."

Lust's head snapped around and she glared at Envy. "Not good. How much do they know?"

Envy gave her an exaggerated shrug. "Not enough. I made sure of that."

"What did you do?"

With an exceptionally arrogant smirk, he said, "It's amazing what you can find out when you pose as someone they think they can trust."

Lust's eyes narrowed and she leaned against the wall dividing their balcony from the one next door and crossed her arms over her breasts. "Don't let your desire for revenge influence your actions. We can't afford to have our real purpose found out."

He looked her up and down and snorted. "You're a fine one to talk about personal vendettas." Then he grinned widely. "Besides, as long as those two don't know why we're here, that tank is safe. It should be easy enough to get to."

"Cain and his people aren't stupid Envy, and neither are the Elrics. Don't underestimate them."

Lust and Envy became silent for a long while; the only sounds were the partiers down below and Gluttony's sloppy feasting behind them. Finally, Envy asked, "Have Sloth and Wrath reported today?"

"Sloth did," Lust said. "They had the target, but he turned on them. Sloth escaped, but he chased Wrath into traffic and the boy nearly lost his head when he was hit by an SUV." She faced Envy. "He ended up as far as the morgue before he could regenerate, Envy. And it took Sloth to get him out of there."

"That little shit turned and ran?" Envy sneered. "Idiot."

"He's the only one who can convert the incomplete stone for our use after it's activated," Lust said. "It's better if he does run if that man is in a position to overwhelm him. I want to eviscerate Sloth for abandoning him."

"When we get back to Nevada, I might let you." Envy closed his eyes and tilted his head up as he smiled beatifically. "I might actually get a _real_ hard-on watching you put an end to that useless bitch."

"Soon enough, Envy," Lust said, smiling at the prospect, herself. "By the way, our '_assistant_' should arrive tomorrow night. What we need that tin can for, is beyond me."

"So maybe you can play with him, too," Envy breathed.

She gazed down the shape-shifter's androgynous body and saw him rub his genderless crotch. It was useless, of course. He didn't have a physical reaction to sexual desire any more, but he couldn't eliminate the memory of it and he could 'make' genitals when it served his purpose. Unfortunately, it wasn't satisfying for him and only managed to make him incredibly cruel to his victims when he used it. The countless years that he'd been this way –unable to feel—had made him an artist with rape and sexual torture.

"A completely useless endeavor," Lust said. "I wouldn't even get the satisfaction of feeling his blood on my skin." Lust was the opposite of Envy; she felt every physical sensation at a heightened level. Her need was never satisfied, either, but she certainly enjoyed it more. Of course, the constant state of arousal would wax and wane… and watching Envy when he performed some of his more exotic tortures always brought her teetering at the brink –but it was never enough.

It had gotten quiet behind them and Lust waited for the inevitable. A moment later, Gluttony waddled up to them, sucking on a finger and looking pathetic. "Lust, I'm still hungry."

Envy opened his eyes and gazed at Lust as his smile went cold. "And I'm bored."

With a rolling flash of static, he became a lovely woman that didn't look like she belonged in the tawdry clothing Envy gave her and was one Lust had never seen before. She didn't look like the type the shape-shifter would normally use to lure and she arched a brow. "Who is that?"

"Delko's dead sister," Envy/Marisol said. "You should have seen the look on his face when he saw me. It was precious!"

Lust moved next to the other monster and a smile tugged at her lips. "You know a weapon like that loses its power when you over-use it. Have a care."

Envy's only response was, "You still have that digital camera?"

Lust's smile grew and she linked arms with Envy/Marisol. "Shall we hunt?"

Gluttony was going to eat well tonight.

* * *

Alexx had finished examining Alphonse and pronounced him fine, which amazed her considering the circumstances. On the surface, there were quite a few contusions and abrasions, but nothing that wouldn't just leave him sore for a few days. The CT scan she ran on him confirmed what her eyes told her. Alphonse Elric was in remarkably good shape… 

…for a fourteen year old boy with almost no body fat, no scars and no evidence of ever having broken even a finger.

She saw the devastation of Interrogation Room One and between that and the contusions on the boy, Alexx didn't need to make a great leap of logic to know he'd been right in the middle of the fray. His attitude, bearing and physical shape told her he was typical of active boys his age. There should have been more evidence of a rough and tumble childhood. Instead, she saw a body free of any old injuries –pristine except for the physical signs of previous, long-term malnutrition. _But that level of malnutrition would affect higher brain function even after the physical effects were reversed, and this child is bright and alert._ It was one more oddity she added to a growing list.

Off to one side of the autopsy theatre, Horatio and Colonel Hughes were quietly talking, and she only picked up snippets of the conversation. This case was becoming more intriguing as the investigation went on and her curiosity was burning, but she trusted Horatio to fill her in on whatever she needed to know when she needed it, and concentrated more on the _living_ patients in front of her.

When it came time for Edward to be examined, he seemed reluctant to take off his shirt. Having already seen the prosthetic right hand, she assumed that was the reason, and said, "It's okay, baby. I've seen much worse than amputated limbs." She took his metal hand in hers and was surprised to discover it was almost body temperature. "And it's nothing to be embarrassed about." She gently turned his hand palm up and added, "This is actually very impressive."

A shy smile pulled his lips and he said, "Winry would be thrilled to hear you say that."

Something in the tone of his voice told Alexx there was more to his relationship with this Winry than he was letting on, but she resisted the temptation to say anything about it. It was already painfully obvious by the way he hesitated to expose just the upper part of his body, that Edward tended to be an extremely private young man.

When he finally removed his shirt, Alexx reassessed her assumption for his reluctance. With extreme control, she kept her expression neutral, but the metal plate that was literally attached to his shoulder nearly elicited a startled gasp from her.

Something must have shown on her face anyway, because Edward's left hand rubbed at his right shoulder and he said, "Yeah, it's bolted into my skeleton." With a sigh and sounding like he'd memorized it all by rote, he said, "Titanium fused to holes drilled into the bone anchor the port, prevent wear and allow for freedom of movement." He ran his finger over the edge of the plate, where the actual arm connected and said, "Inside there are connectors fused to the nerve endings." He flexed the fingers of his left hand and demonstrated the full range of motion he was capable of. "Fiber optics, servos and computer chips let me move; tubing and fluid like they use in liquid-cooled computers regulates the temperature inside and out." He tapped his forearm. "It's all titanium, so it's light, durable and deflects heat… mostly. It's still a little uncomfortable if it's exposed to the sun on hot days." He knocked on his left shin and said, "The leg's the same."

"Remarkable," Alexx breathed.

"Indeed it is, Alexx," Horatio said as he joined them for a closer look. "May I ask how you came by these amazing prosthetics?"

Edward's eyes cast down and he practically curled in on himself as he unconsciously rubbed at his shoulder. Alexx cast a glance at Alphonse and saw him squirm and wrap his arms around himself and avoid her gaze.

Colonel Hughes nervously cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck, then said, "That's… classified, I'm afraid."

"No," Edward said softly. He met Alexx's eyes and then Horatio's. "It's okay, Hughes." A tremulous smile twitched and he added, "A 'Good Will' gesture, right?"

"Edward," Horatio said, "I apologize. If this is too personal, you don't need to answer."

The young man shrugged with only his left shoulder and Alexx noticed that he was still rubbing at the right. _Phantom pain?_

"It's need-to-know, Edward. It has no bearing on the case," Hughes admonished.

"It does have bearing on the case," Edward said. "Sorta."

"Then I'm all ears," Horatio said.

Hughes threw his hands up and made a _be-my-guest_ gesture at Edward.

"You two talk," Alexx said as she took Edward's left hand in hers and raised his arm, "just don't get in my way while I examine this young man."

A dismayed groan came from Edward when she lightly prodded at a darkening bruise on his ribs and she hesitated. "Did that hurt?"

"Not really."

"Brother just doesn't like doctors," Alphonse said lightly.

"I understand," Alexx said with a gentle smile. "Physical therapy for your prosthetics couldn't have been much fun."

"You have no idea," he mumbled, then faced Horatio. "Lt. Caine, the first thing you should know is that the Alchemist Program doesn't normally conscript kids. Al and I are… unusual."

Amusement crinkled Horatio's eyes as he dipped his head and gazed sidelong at the older boy. "Of that, I had no doubt."

Edward chuffed and went on. "Well, without going into the gory details… when Al and I were real young, we did something that's strictly forbidden in alchemy."

"Edward, this is the second time you used that word," Horatio said. "Are you talking about chemistry combined with philosophy to turn base metals into gold? A practice that died out during the renaissance?"

"Well, turning anything into gold is also strictly forbidden," Edward said, "but yeah."

"Are you telling me that the United States military has revised a dead art?"

"Actually," Hughes said, "we're only very loosely attached to the U.S. military. And only by virtue of the fact that they allow us to have our main base of operations here. Most of the alchemists and support staff are scientists, but there are some whose skills are useful to the UN security counsil."

"And the art never died," Edward added.

Alexx stared at Horatio and he arched a brow at her. "I see that we'll have to have a very long discussion after this," he said, then he nodded at Edward. "But continue, please."

With a deep breath, the young man steeled himself, then said, "Anyway, what we did? Was worse than turning lead into gold. We…" and he hesitated.

Alexx could see that the memory was excruciating to the boy, and terribly shameful to both of them and she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around them and comfort them.

"We really screwed up," Alphonse whispered as he stared down at the floor. His long bangs hid his face, but his grip on his forearms tightened as he hugged himself. "And it wasn't an accident." He gazed up at Horatio through his bangs and said, "We planned it out carefully and made a conscious decision to go through with it, even though we _thought_ we knew the risks."

Edward was avoiding looking at his younger brother and shame etched his fine features. Even Hughes was shifting uncomfortably and there was a pain in his green eyes that only a parent could feel when watching his child struggle; wanting desperately to do whatever he could to make the child's hurt go away, but knowing that –in this case—he had to stand back and allow it. Alexx understood then that Colonel Maes Hughes wasn't just the boy's advocate or a superior officer, but a member of their extended family.

"Dad," Edward said, bitterly, "was almost never around." A short bark escaped the young man's lips that might've been a laugh. "Even when he was, he wasn't. So it was just mom and us."

"Then she got sick," Alphonse said.

"Glioblastoma multiforme," Edward said, staring down at his hands, "grade four astrocytoma." He met Horatio's eyes and something unspoken passed between them that Alexx wasn't privy to. "I was ten and Al was nine when mom died."

Her heart went out to both of them. To watch a loved one deteriorate from any illness was horrible, but from a grade four brain tumor –and to witness it at such a young age; with no father around to ease the pain or to help them understand—

--but there was something else very wrong with Edward's story. "I'm sorry," Alexx said. "Did you say that Alphonse is only one ye—" a gentle grip on her wrist startled her and she glanced at Horatio. The warning in his eyes silenced her.

"Dad was in the Alchemy Program," Edward continued, "and Al and I are smarter than average. We'd already been into his books; had already started practicing alchemy. Simple stuff. Transmuting flowers or dolls, shit like that."

"We wanted to join the Alchemy Program when we grew up," Alphonse said. "Mom taught us that it was supposed to be used to help people. But we needed to learn more, so we started deciphering Dad's old personal journals."

"Then we came across one that had to do with…" Edward hesitated and his shame became more pronounced. His eyes darted down and his right hand clenched tightly.

Alexx laid a gentle hand on his left shoulder and said, "It's okay, baby. We're not here to judge."

"You should," Edward whispered. When he met her gaze, the shame and pain was so intense she had to blink back the threatening sting of impending tears. "What we did… it was worse than making gold from lead. It was human alchemy."

"We tried to bring our mother back from the dead," Alphonse said softly, his voice trembling.

Alexx covered her mouth in an effort to smother a gasp. How they could have possibly attempted to go about it, she couldn't begin to imagine, but the fact that two very young boys –who should have been more worried about getting cooties from their friend Winry, or the latest video games—had even contemplated something like this horrified her and broke her heart.

"Forgive me, Edward," Horatio said. "I'm afraid I don't understand. How did this cause you to lose your limbs?" Then he gazed at Alphonse and added, "And how does this explain the fact that your brother appears to be more than one year younger than you?"

"Alchemy is a system of Equivalent Exchange," Edward said. "When you transmute something, the final result has to have similar properties."

"You can make water into wine," Alphonse said, "but you can't make wine out of stone."

"That's the simple explanation," Edward said. "Human transmutation isn't quite so basic, but Equivalent Exchange is still part of the equation." He tensed and looked away from Alphonse. "When we tried to bring her back, we had to give up something. A human life isn't cheap, Lt. Caine," Edward said as he gripped his right thigh.

The autopsy theatre was silent for a long time. Alexx tried desperately to digest what she'd just heard --and assumed Horatio was doing the same—but no matter what, she couldn't shake that pervasive sense of unreality.

"Lt. Caine," Hughes said, "had the boys been adults, they would have been imprisoned and executed. As it was, it was a miracle they even survived. Their talent is remarkable, even for the Alchemy Program."

"So your organization chose to exploit them, instead?" Horatio asked without taking his eyes off Edward; his voice tight.

Hughes sighed and closed his eyes tiredly. "Quite the opposite, actually. We did what we could to protect them."

Horatio turned on Hughes with a cold glare. "By sending _children_ out into the field?"

Hughes tensed and took a step toward Horatio. His jaw was set and his eyes had gone hard, but he never raised his voice as he said, "First of all _lieutenant_, we are not under any obligation to justify—"

"Mr. Horatio, Brother and I made that choice," Alphonse said. "No one forced us."

"Besides," Edward added, "we were already a part of the program by virtue of being born into it. We were given dependant benefits in medical care, education and training. We had the choice to be researchers or soldiers, or not be involved in the program at all except as consultants. As long as we honored the non-disclosure rules we were free to make our own choices in the matter. We didn't actually join the military branch until we'd each reached sixteen."

As Alexx helped Edward lie back on the exam table to run the CT scan on him, Horatio said, "Which brings us back to the issue of age, Edward. I can accept that you're over 16, but your younger brother couldn't possibly be."

Alphonse smiled and said, "I'm seventeen, Mr. Horatio."

"If you are lying to me, I will find out, Alphonse."

As the scanner hummed and traveled the length of Edward's body, he started to face Horatio and opened his mouth to speak, but Alexx interrupted. "Stay still, Edward."

"Yes'm," he said meekly and turned his head back into position. "You can test the telemeres to get his cellular age lieutenant, but all you'll get is that his _body_ is fourteen."

"You are not attempting to convince me of past lives, I hope."

Edward snorted. "No way."

"You know that picture of Nina and my brother you have?" Alphonse said. "I was in there, too."

"It would be physically impossible for you to control that suit of armor now, much less a few years ago, Alphonse. I advise you to come up with a different story," Horatio said as he cast a glance over at Hughes.

The colonel raised his hands and said, "You're not going to believe anything I have to say on the subject."

"You're right, Colonel Hughes. I don't believe what I'm hearing from these boys, either."

"That's because it wasn't his body," Edward said as the machine hovering over him had ended its scan and Alexx helped him sit back up. "His soul was attached to the armor. His body was somewhere else, in a state of stasis." He shrugged and added, "More or less."

"Mr. Horatio," Alphonse said gently, "If someone had told you that shape-shifting was possible, or that a human and a dog could be fused together yesterday, would you have believed them?"

Horatio's head dipped and he cast a sideways glance at Alexx with just the hint of a smile. He'd just successfully been outmaneuvered by children. The story was perfect; no holes they could use to prove that Alphonse and Edward were telling anything less than the truth… bizarre as it was.

**Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix. CSI: and CSI: Miami are created and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and owned by CBS. All rights reserved.**


	7. He Who Hesitates is Dead

**Sit Vis Tecum**

**Chapter Six:**

"**He Who Hesitates **

**is Dead"**

Something darted in and out of Eric's line of sight, causing him to lurch back and throw up an arm. His heart pounded as he jerked around, looking for the object or person that had gotten his attention, and it was only when he realized that Ryan was right next to him –and they were still in the locker room-- that he could start breathing again.

Worry creased the other man's brow as he said, "Hey? You all right? You've been staring at that for five minutes, now."

Eric glanced down and saw his blood-stained shirt clenched in his white-knuckled fist; he hadn't remembered even taking it off. He swallowed as the memory of his sister's face on that monster came up with the bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat. "Yeah," he croaked. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Ryan said, and it sounded like it had come from the far end of a long tunnel.

Eric couldn't tear his gaze from the destroyed shirt, but all he could see was the blood that obscured the pattern on the fabric. He swallowed again as he held it up and stared. It was horrid, really. The ugliest Hawaiian print shirt he'd ever seen, in fact. He'd been out with Marisol when he saw it the first time and commented on the absolute atrocity of it. So naturally, when his birthday had rolled around three weeks later, she'd handed him a box, carefully wrapped in tasteful paper and a nice bow… and inside was that ugly shirt. It had been wrapped around a rare CD he'd been wanting and had been hunting down for ages. That had been the real gift, but it didn't stop his promise of retribution when her birthday came.

That birthday never arrived. Marisol had died and the atrocious Hawaiian print shirt came out of the back of his closet. It had become his favorite; a little piece of his beloved sister --with a wicked sense of humor that most never saw.

Now it was ruined; soaked clean through with the blood of a fellow officer and that… thing. So drenched that the fabric had clung to his skin, leaving a slimy film behind that he didn't think would ever wash away.

"_What's the matter, little brother? Not happy to see me?"_ The voice had mimicked his sister's --just like the face had-- but it was so… oily and cold.

Eric glanced back at Ryan, about to assure his friend that he really was fine, but everything seemed to start fading into the black spots at the edge of his vision and his stomach flipped threateningly. He shoved the ruined shirt at Ryan and dashed toward the latrine. He knew before he took three steps he wasn't going to make it that far and aimed for the nearest trash can. He gripped the sides of the can as he heaved up lunch, breakfast and part of last night's dinner, then held on longer while the painful spasms subsided.

He barely noticed as a pair of strong hands guided him back to the bench between the rows of lockers and helped him sit down, then something cold was pressed against the back of his neck and he flinched.

"Easy, Eric," Ryan said from next to him. "It's just a bottle of water."

"Thanks," Eric mumbled as he took the bottle, cracked the seal and dumped enough in his mouth to rinse it. He stood to spit into the trash can and felt the shaking of his legs warning him of collapse. He fell back onto the bench, recapped the water and pressed it against his chest just under his collar bones. The coldness was soothing and alleviated the fresh wave of nausea that was beginning to roil.

He sat in silence for a long moment, waiting for the rest of the shaking to pass and trying desperately not to think about the scene in Interrogation Room One. Eric felt Ryan next to him and he started to wonder how the other man was holding up. A glance told him not much better than himself. Ryan was bent forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly. Eric couldn't see his face, but the clenched jaw and nervous jiggling of Ryan's left leg was enough. "What about you?" he asked.

Ryan's head came up and he scowled at Eric in confusion.

"You gonna be all right?" Eric clarified.

Ryan went still as he thought about it a moment, then he said, "About as all right as you are."

Eric chuffed softly and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "We're both screwed, then."

* * *

"Edward, what can you tell me about that red substance we found in Mr. Tucker's basement?" Horatio asked. The examinations were over and Alexx had declared both boys in excellent condition under the circumstances. Edward, Alphonse and Colonel Hughes were now in Horatio's office; a place that was a bit more private than the interrogation rooms.

It had been a very long day and it was nowhere near over, but the Elrics were no longer suspects. In fact, they were willing to assist in the investigation –although just how far that willingness would go was still up for debate. From the way the boys shifted in their seats, Horatio had a feeling that he'd just hit their limit. Hughes was still and confident, but Horatio thought back to when he was talking about the test results on the red substance with Natalia, and the quiet argument the colonel had with Edward, and that look of fear on Alphonse's face at the sight of the sample.

"I assume your people, as well as the Hazmat team, had already run tests on it," Hughes said.

"We have."

"Then you know all you need to know about it, Lt. Caine. Just tell us where it's currently being stored and my people will take it off your hands."

Hughes was calm, but Horatio could see that the boys were growing more agitated. They each showed it differently, with Alphonse swallowing pupils dilating, even getting a bit pale and clammy. Edward was tensing; his left hand clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Neither boy was looking at Horatio, but Edward was glaring at Hughes.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Colonel Hughes," Horatio said, never taking his eyes off of Edward. Any minute now, that young man was going to explode –and when he did, Horatio would get his information. "That tank and the substance in it is evidence in an ongoing investigation." His gaze met Hughes' then, as he added, "I have one officer missing, one whose career is over because he lost his arm, and three more who are dead, Colonel Hughes; all in connection with that seemingly harmless synthesized amniotic fluid. I need to know why."

Hughes sighed and brushed his hand down his face. "Lieutenant, we're not at liberty to explain. I'm sorry."

"This is bullshit," Edward mumbled, then he jumped to his feet, kicked his chair over and started pacing in front of Horatio's desk.

"Settle down, Ed," Hughes said, tiredly. "The information is classified for a reason."

Edward glowered and pointed somewhere behind the older man. "I know that! But the reason is getting people killed, dammit! It's getting _cops_ killed! If cooperating with the police gets it back to--"

"That's enough," Hughes said as he rose to his feet and placed his hands on Edward's shoulders in an effort to get the boy to sit back down. "We can assist with the investigation, but we absolutely cannot give out classified information about that substance."

Edward jerked back, then snagged the front of Hughes' jacket in an automail grip and yanked him down to his level. "You want to cover this shit up?!" Edward waved his free hand back at Horatio and said, "They already know too much, asshole! Enough to put them on Envy's radar… or did you miss the fucking mess he made of the interrogation room today?"

Horatio wondered about the desperate sound to Edward's histrionics, but his concern was more with Alphonse who was growing paler. He doubted Alexx could have missed an injury, but it was possible that the younger sibling had a medical condition no one wanted to mention, and wouldn't show up in the standard examination.

Hughes didn't try to get free of Edward's grip, but his eyes had gone hard as steel and his voice was tight as he said, "The General knows very well what's going on, Edward. Do you think he made this decision lightly?"

Edward sneered as he shoved Hughes away from him. "Bastard," he whispered. "I never expected you, of all people, to become the General's favorite asslick—"

"Brother!"

Ed stepped back and pointed at Hughes, his hand shaking and a disgusted grimace on his face. "You can't make this one just go away." He turned and faced Horatio, and opened his mouth.

"Lieutenant Colonel Edward Elric, if you say another word, you will be charged with insubordination. You _will_ be court-martialed," Hughes snapped.

A slow, devious grin spread across Edward's face. "Well, if I'm going to end up in front of a firing squad, I might as well make it worth it."

Horatio shot another quick glance at Alphonse, just in time to see the smaller boy fly out of his seat and shove his bigger brother back from his desk. He never had a chance to try and stop it and wasn't so certain he wanted to. There wasn't any fighting or even a tussle happening anyway. Edward seemed to give in to his younger brother without much protest.

Alphonse had his back to Horatio, but he didn't need to see the boy's face to know he was furious. The trembling that quaked through his small frame was enough.

Edward, for his part was stiff in an effort to control his own anger, but he was hovering right at the edge of where his deference to his younger sibling was nearing the breaking point. "Al," he warned through gritted teeth.

"Shut up, Ed. Just listen for a minute." After a long pause, Alphonse's tone went gentle. "Please?"

It was subtle, but Horatio saw Edward relax just the slightest bit.

"You know why we can't give that information out, Brother."

"Just because someone knows it, doesn't mean they can do it Al. We know that know."

Alphonse shook his head. He whispered, "And we both know that won't stop them from trying. Do you really want to risk another--?" he cut himself off with a choke and the near crumbling of Edward's face at the unspoken name was enough: _Nina_.

Edward sighed and relented, then shot a glare at Hughes. "Time's wasting," he said, then headed for the door.

It was just as Horatio had suspected and feared. Somehow that harmless fluid was part and parcel of the creation of that pathetic, horrifying chimera. "Gentlemen," he said gently, "I believe I have enough information. There is no need to risk your military careers over this, just yet." He turned his attention on Hughes and said, "I propose a compromise. I'll order tighter security on that vat of fluid; along side military officers of your own choosing. However, it will not be released to your people until this investigation is complete. That, Colonel Hughes, is non-negotiable."

Hughes appeared to think about it for a moment, then he nodded and pulled out a cellphone. "I'll have people here in a few hours, lieutenant." He shot a glare back at Edward. "I have little doubt that the General will be willing to listen to his 'favorite asslicker'."

Edward hesitated the briefest moment with his hand on the knob, glanced back at Hughes, and cocked an oh-so-bland brow at him. Then he opened the door and left.

With a frustrated groan, Alphonse muttered as he followed Edward out, "I swear it's a full-time job being his brother. I wonder if I can demand a better benefits package. Maybe hazard pay. Definitely a vacation. Like… for a year."

"I take it life is quite interesting with those two boys around," Horatio said with amusement.

"Yeah," Hughes said as he put the phone to his ear. "Like '_Chinese Curse'_ interesting."

* * *

"—That seems to be the popular opinion about you lately," Roy chuckled into the phone as Major Riza Hawkeye entered the office with an arm full of files. He listened with only half an ear as Hughes gave his report and knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man was not telling him everything. He'd known Maes Hughes far too long to dismiss that overly manic tone he got when he was hiding something. Not that it mattered; Roy would get it out of him eventually. He always did.

He scowled down as the files landed in the middle of his desk with a muffled thump, then waved Hawkeye back before she left. He gestured for her to wait and finished up his conversation with Hughes. "I'll scramble a team right away, Maes. Thank you. I'll also put in a request for a new, more descriptive job title for you."

"_You're an asshole, Roy."_

"So I've been told. And you, apparently are my favorite—"

"_By the way, Gracia said Marion was asking about you the other day. You want me to give her your new number?"_

Roy groaned and closed his eyes. Some women just didn't get the message…

Victorious, Hughes chortled and hung up.

Roy tossed the receiver back into the cradle and faced the major, suddenly feeling very tired. "I need a team out to Miami A.S.A.P."

"How bad is it, General?"

"Worse than expected. Tucker's dead and the Miami-Dade police department confiscated a vat of catalyst from his basement," Roy said as he stared into space rubbing his chin and wondering what else was going on.

"Any tests they run on it will just show up as a harmless fluid, sir."

"Maybe," Roy said. "But this is the Miami CSI." He gazed at Hawkeye, knowing she knew exactly the reason he was concerned. It was up to her people to keep careful track of all the best –and nosiest—detectives wherever any of their operatives might be working and Horatio Caine was legendary. They'd managed to stay off his radar all these years so far. Leave it to Fullmetal to turn on the spotlight when a candle would have been sufficient. With a sigh he propped his elbows on his desk lowered his head to rub at his temples. "Not exactly the 'debut' I was hoping for."

"You should have anticipated this when you sent the Elrics to Florida," Roy heard Hawkeye say, and glanced up in time to catch the mischievous spark in the major's brown eyes just before she added as an after-thought, "Sir."

"Send Havoc, Breda and Fuery," Roy said, choosing to ignore the mild insubordination. "That should be plenty for security."

Hawkeye nodded and as she headed out of the office, said, "I'll make sure the _Bouki_ is stocked with extra airsickness bags."

"I thought we sent that rattletrap to the graveyard?"

The major shot a '_you-must-be-joking'_ look back over her shoulder and said, "Captain Havoc refuses to allow it to be decommissioned."

"He curses that thing every time he has to do the maintenance on it and half the time when he has to fly it," Roy said as he shook his head.

"You should know better by now than to try to understand his logic, sir."

"Logic, Major Hawkeye, seems to be in as short supply as sanity in the Alchemist Program."

"Speak for yourself, General," Hawkeye said and opened the door. "I'll get the team together."

"Ah," Roy said, and Hawkeye turned back to him. "Add Armstrong to the list."

She arched a fine brow at that. "Sir?"

"I'm playing a hunch."

She smiled a bit and nodded. "Yes, sir."

After Hawkeye left the office, Roy tapped his lips with a gloved finger and said, "What are you not telling me, Maes?"

* * *

Ed closed his cellphone and leaned back against the wall. At least the bench in the corridor was cushioned. Sure, he wasn't seriously injured, but damn, did he hurt. He knew from the reports that Envy was strong as hell, but he didn't expect the homunculus to sling him like a wrecking ball into the wall like that. He was looking forward to that Jacuzzi at the hotel later, even if it did mean that he was going to have to spend extra time re-oiling his automail afterwards.

He flexed his right arm and felt something catch. Not bad. It wasn't something that needed looked at right away, anyhow. But it made for a plausible excuse for what he really wanted Winry to do. He glanced at his younger brother's anticipatory expression. "She'll be here, Al."

Al let out a sigh of relief and said, "This is a good thing you're doing, but you know General Mustang is gonna have both our hides when he finds out."

"Yeah, well, he's indirectly responsible for it, isn't he?" Ed said.

"You're not being fair." Al shot a quick glance past Ed's shoulder.

Ed twisted to see what caught his brother's attention and saw Hughes exiting Lt. Caine's office with the Senior CSI. He grit his teeth as he watched words he couldn't hear be exchanged with smiles and handshakes. "They look awful tight, don't they?"

"You're certainly not being fair to Colonel Hughes, either."

Ed's jaw clenched and he stared down at his hands. "We don't know how much longer we can wait, Al; how much longer _you_ can wait."

"We'll wait for as long as it takes, Brother."

Ed glanced back at Hughes and felt a flush of shame heat him up. Al was right, they couldn't rush this. Especially now. It frustrated him that he had to be extra careful, though. Any move they made could put a big ugly black mark on the Program, and that was the last thing any of the alchemists' needed. But Al was also wrong. They couldn't wait for as long as it would take. Not if it took longer than they had. That catalyst could be their answer, but if Caine didn't release it soon, it would be worthless. Ed wanted to cooperate with the police, to get this investigation over with as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, some things were need-to-know for a reason.

The last thing the general public needed to know was that a shadow group of created human weapons were on the loose and they were going after something that would make them even more invincible than they already were.

Hughes joined the boys and laid an affectionate hand on Ed's shoulder. Of all the people in the Elric brother's lives, he probably understood the most and forgave the quickest. Ed smiled sadly and said, "Sorry, Hughes. About earlier."

"I'm hungry," Hughes said, "and I have a sudden craving for Chinese. My treat."

"Oh, well," Ed said, brightening, "if you're paying, I know this place—"

"We'll hit the all-you-can-eat buffet down the street from the hotel."

"Cheapskate."

"I know how you eat."

* * *

Horatio watched as the Elrics and Hughes left and thought more about what _wasn't_ said today. He didn't turn when he felt the presence of both Eric and Ryan on either side of him. "Gentlemen," he said, acknowledging them.

"Man H, I think today was the strangest ever."

"And it's only going to get stranger, Eric," Horatio said, and strolled off. There was a room full of hand-written journals marked as evidence that were calling his name.

* * *

A/N: _Bouki _isa canine character in Creole folktales, typically the dimwitted victim of Lapin's trickery**. T**he tale of the tarbaby and the briar patch, made world famous by Joel Chandler Harris's Brer Rabbit stories and by Walt Disney's 1946 cartoon rendition, has been collected from French-speaking Americans since the nineteenth century; see Fortier (1895, 108). Similar tales have been collected in French-speaking Missouri (Carriére 1937). AT 175; K741. Capture by tar baby; K581.2, Briar-patch punishment for rabbit. Three other Louisiana variants of this story--#33, #49, #200--appear in this book. From: Louisiana Voices – An Educator's Guide to Exploring Our Communities and Traditions.

Why? Because in THIS particular 'verse, Havoc is Cajun!

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix. CSI: and CSI: Miami are created and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and owned by CBS. All rights reserved.


	8. A Face Only a Mother Could Love

**Sit Vis Tecum  
****Chapter Seven:  
"A Face Only A  
Mother Could Love"**

She wasn't a flawless beauty; there were quite a few scars marring her skin from the action she'd seen. She was cantankerous, sometimes slow to get moving, and often complained once she did --some places she refused to venture at all. She was, on occasion, dangerously unpredictable.

'She' was _Bouki_, a CV-22 Osprey, and Captain Jean Havoc loved her dearly... even as he cussed her.

Technically, she should have been grounded like the rest of her kind after another Osprey had suffered a hydraulic malfunction that had killed several soldiers. But since she didn't 'exist' in any public or official military records (much like the rest of the Alchemist Program), the captain had more leeway. For this, Havoc was grateful, because no matter how stubborn and obnoxious she could be, she still came through for him time and again. The _Bouki _was an Air Force Special Ops version Vertical/Short Take Off and Landing craft, with all the appropriate horns, bells and whistles, but he'd added a few extras specifically for the Alchemist Program, such as extra electromagnetic shielding for the sensitive computer and electronic components --damn, those alchemists made a mess of things when they got wound up-- and there were a few tweaks that Havoc added because... well, he wanted them. As far as he was concerned, it was one of the perks he was entitled to for freely giving up damn near his entire life and identity for this program.

Fortunately, with General Mustang running things these days, some of that was going to change. He'd probably never completely drop the neutral North American 'non'-accent while on duty and with the public, but at least he didn't worry about getting busted anymore when caught in a casual situation, or just plain tired and his natural twang bled through...

...And maybe he'd be able to take a little trip back to the bayou eventually. It had been ten years since he left, out of anger and rebellion; embarrassed by his roots and traditions, and the family that clung so tightly to them. It wasn't until he was forced to hide the accent, the colloquialisms and the Cajun worldview for the program that he'd come to appreciate and miss it all.

He wondered, as he made his way slowly around the craft for the pre-flight checks, if his family would be proud of what he'd become. He was. It hadn't been easy to be just another bland face in the crowd, killing off so much of what made him unique, but the things he'd done and seen had made it worth it, in the end.

He ran his hand lovingly over the laughing rabbit and confused dog he'd painted beneath the pilot's window and noticed that it was getting a bit tired-looking. There was a shallow crease and burn mark along the dog's flank from a year ago. Now there was a mission he'd never forget. They'd lost Kimblee --had assumed he was dead; what a shame he hadn't stayed that way-- but had successfully rescued a family who was in danger of...

Havoc shuddered and changed the direction of his thoughts. It had been harrowing at the time. He was grateful that he'd gotten the people he could out alive, and in the end, it was considered a success. "We've got us a long flight, _mon ami_," he said to the _Bouki_. "You do good, and I'll make this fresh, eh?"

"Your hick is showing, Havo,"

Havoc didn't need to turn to know that the person who came up behind him was First Lieutenant Heymans Breda. He also didn't need to say a word to get his message across. Instead he graced the round red-head with a perfectly executed, over-the-shoulder, one-fingered salute.

Breda chuckled, then said, "The teams' loading up. We got us an extra, though."

Havoc glanced back at Breda and cocked a questioning brow, but before he could say anything, there was a rattle and crash, followed by a string of very colorful swearing from the open ramp at the back of the Osprey. He recognized the voice and crept cautiously around to see what had happened; ready to duck quickly if something came flying at his head.

Instead, the owner of the voice --a young blonde woman-- was kneeling on the ground and picking up wrenches and screwdrivers and an odd assortment of diagnostic devices that had scattered on the tarmac when her rolling toolbox had caught on the lip of the ramp and tipped over.

"Dr. Rockbell," Havoc said as he knelt next to her and started helping her gather the mess together. "I guess this means Fullmetal banged up his automail pretty bad?"

Winry Rockbell scowled at him, making him lurch back instinctively. Then she shook her head and went back to gathering up her tools. "He said it was minor, but you know Ed. He's not going to call me about it unless it's practically hanging off his body... or shattered." She tossed a wrench into the drawer with more force than necessary, as she said, "I swear, if he shattered it again, orders from General Mustang or no, that pain in the ass is going to get a big dose of Rockbell aversion therapy." She slung a screwdriver into the drawer along side the wrench and added, "And then I'll give an even bigger dose to the General for even sending those boys on that mission."

Havoc suppressed a chortle at the image. General Roy Mustang, the Flame alchemist, was not afraid of much, with the possible exception of blonde majors who had deadly aim, and blonde automail mechanics whose ability to hurl a wrench was nearly as accurate. He'd always wondered if it were the projectiles he feared, or the women wielding them, but Havoc valued his skin too much to risk asking.

Once all the tools were gathered back in the box, Havoc took the backwards end and helped Winry maneuver it onto the ramp. It was no wonder it tipped over, it weighed a ton. "What the hell have you got in this thing? An anvil?"

"Yes."

Havoc's jaw dropped. He would have been the first to admit that he had no clue what, exactly, was involved in automail maintenance, but he honestly didn't think it involved an anvil.

Winry giggled at his expression, then said, "It's just extra parts and fluids, Captain. Ed wouldn't go into detail about what he needed, so I figured I'd better cover all my bases, including spare limbs."

"Ah," he grunted as the two of them fought to get the other end onto the ramp. "I'll have a talk with him about that. Can't have you adding more to the payload just because he wants to keep his pride."

"Allow me," boomed the voice of Lt. Colonel Alex Louis Armstrong as he strode up to the two of them.

Havoc and Winry both grinned and stepped out of the way.

Armstrong deftly lifted the heavy toolbox and carried it into the the _Bouki_. The opening was impressive, tall enough for even Havoc, who was 6'2" to stroll in without having to duck. Armstrong, on the other hand, practically had to bend at the waist and stoop to keep from cracking his bald head on the frame.

"Well, I guess that takes care of that," Winry giggled and followed the large alchemist in.

Breda poked his head around the side of the craft and said, "Is it safe?"

"Coward," Havoc said.

Breda came the rest of the way around the Osprey and jerked his BDUs straighter. "Not at all. It was a well-reasoned tactical maneuver. I've seen what she's done to Fullmetal when he pissed her off."

Havoc snorted and pulled a cigarette out of a pack in a pocket under the flight suit and popped it between his lips. He glanced down at his watch, then back toward the hangar that camouflaged the underground complex. "Damn, two minutes. That's not like Fuery."

A small form came charging out of the hangar, his jacket in hand, flapping behind him in his jet-wash.

"Ah, there he is."

The young sergeant skidded to a stop in front of Havoc and Breda and saluted smartly. "Sgt Kain Fuery reporting for duty. Sir!"

Havoc couldn't help himself. He set his expression as serious as possible, and said, "You're two minutes and--" he glanced down at his watch, "23 seconds late, sergeant. Do I need to report this to the general?"

"Uh..."

It was impossible to keep a straight face when Fuery went so pale that he seemed to glow in the waning sunlight. Havoc slapped the young man on the shoulder and said, "At ease, Sergeant. I was joking and it was only two minutes."

Fuery visibly relaxed and headed into the _Bouki_ with a nod.

As Havoc and Breda boarded the aircraft, Breda asked in a low voice, "Why do you do that to him?"

"Because he falls for it every time," Havoc said with a chuckle.

"You know, one of these days, he's gonna pay you back for that. Probably do something to your MP3 player that fries all those shitty songs you like to play." Breda suddenly grinned, then added, "On second thought, keep it up, Havo."

* * *

Roy leaned against the frame of the open hangar with his arms crossed and watched his men readying for take-off. The scent of sage and palo verdi and creosote floated on the early evening breezes, along with the sounds of bats as they came out to hunt, the skittering of rodents and rabbits in the sand and rocks around the hangar, and a single, lowering call of an owl in the distance.

He'd filled the team in on what Intel he had about the situation earlier. It wasn't enough, as far as he was concerned. _Hughes had better fill them in better when they get there_, he thought. He knew that his best friend and most trusted officer would, but it did nothing to ease Roy's anxiety.

_They're good soldiers_, he reminded himself. All of them had battle experience and had been on more than a handful of special ops missions that required fast and creative thinking. _And they've all come back alive.  
_  
Telling himself this didn't help, though. He couldn't shake the feeling that Something Very Bad was about to happen.

_Dear Gods, Tucker is dead and there was a vat of catalyst in the basement. Where was his daughter? And Envy is on a rampage, now. Why? And why is he in Miami, of all places? Is there a connection between Tucker and the homunculus? _Roy could only wonder what it could be. Tucker was little more than a third-rate alchemist who was only in the program by virtue of the fact that he'd been born into it and had a modicum of talent. His mother had been one of the top bio-alchemists that had ever lived. Her skills had helped advance the studies on genetics and mental abilities inherent in the talented. She was the one who had proven conclusively that the ability to perform alchemy wasn't something _just_ learned. There had to be an ability similar to psychics. The control and knowledge to transmute was the learned skill, but there had to be something there in the first place, or all the education in chemistry wouldn't do a damn bit of good.

Shou Tucker, however, could barely transmute a pile of silica into sandstone. Roy couldn't, for the life of him, imagine what the hell Envy would want with him. _What is the connection? _

As for Envy; they'd been tracking him and his five cohorts down for the past two years, and every time they came close, they'd just miss. Fortunately, they tended to stay underground and quiet, with only the occasional 'odd occurrence' hitting the news. Still, Roy was edgy over the fact that several human weapons were on the loose, and it looked like his worst fears were being realized in Miami.

Envy had been the first 'success' in the experiment. Impossible to kill --he regenerated almost instantly-- and the most dangerous of the lot. A shape-shifter who loved violence, and not a single ethical bone in his constantly changing body.

Some of the records of the experiments on those people had been destroyed, but Roy knew Tucker hadn't been a part of that. _The catalyst? _That didn't make sense. The catalyst had been another failed experiment. It was originally designed to enhance alchemic abilities in battle, and the only thing it had done was make those who'd tried it unstable. Kimblee was a perfect example. His use of the catalyst over time and several missions had caused him to snap in Afghanistan. He'd destroyed an entire village and most of the people with wanton abandon, then disappeared. Constant searches and Intel had just kicked up dust there, too. _Until he decided to show himself. This even has him scared._

_But the catalyst is the only logical answer, and at the same time, there is no logic to it. It's useless to Envy. He's incapable of transmuting anything. All the homunculi are._

The engines of the _Bouki_ whined as they started up and the rotors unfolded. A moment later, the craft's blades leveled off and lifted it from the ground. Soon Havoc would bring them forward and the Osprey would take flight to Miami. Roy wished them a silent good luck, and headed back inside. Roy doubted he'd sleep until he got the word that the mission was complete and his men were coming home safe. He never did.

* * *

Edward Elric stared down at the still form in the hospital bed, and wondered why he'd come in the first place. What would he say to the officer laying there with a missing arm? _"Gee, so sorry about all that, pal. Just because it's more or less my fault your career is over and you don't have any way to support your wife and kids..?"_

_If we'd gotten here a couple of days earlier, this might not have happened, _he thoughtHe tiredly ran his left hand down his face and sighed. For two years they'd been chasing after little more than vague rumors and wisps of smoke in an attempt to help clean up the previous general's messes, and he was getting sick of spinning his wheels.

Then there was the other problem that had started to become more pressing. _Was it a mistake in the first place? Stupid question. Of course it was. But how much longer are we going to have to pay for it? And what's going to be the final price? Would it have been better to just let Al-- _Ed clenched his right fist and stopped the thought before it could be completed. _I can't think that. Not now. Not ever.  
_  
Ever since he and his brother had attempted to bring their mother back _--Who are you trying to kid? This is __**your**__ responsibility. Al wouldn't have gone through with it, if you hadn't been so damned insistent-- _they had been scrambling to fix their screw-ups, only to make another one in the process_. How deep does this hole I've dug for myself go?_

He turned and strode quietly out of the room. _At least I can fix something._

* * *

Havoc took a drag off the cigarette hanging from his lips and flipped the intercom on. "This is your pilot speaking. It's a balmy 87 degrees at 7:21 pm, as we take off from beautiful Area 51 and we will reach Miami in approximately 8 hours. Just in time to catch the sunrise over the Atlantic ocean, for those of you who will still be awake then. Please keep your trays in the upright position and observe all seat-belt and no smoking signs. Thank you for flying Alchemy Air --and now for your entertainment and to make the flight go faster, some music..." He killed the mic and flipped another switch that looked like it had been added as an afterthought and connected directly to an MP3 player propped against the control panel.

As Havoc switched the _Bouki_ from vertical-mode to flight-mode, the jaunty sound of a country tune filtered through the speakers.

Breda stared at him. "You didn't."

The blond glanced sideways at his co-pilot and just grinned, then he started singing along with the lyrics:

_"Well it's 40 below and I don't give a fuck  
Got a heater in my truck and I'm off to the rodeo  
And it's allemande left allemande right  
Come on ya fuckin' dummy get your right step right  
Get off the stage ya god damn goof ya know._

_Piss me off ya fuckin' jerk get on my nerves..."  
_  
Breda shook his head and started laughing. "You know that if the general gets wind of this, you're ass is bar-b-qued. Hell with that... I'm giving Strongarm two seconds to get over the shock and stick his head in here."

* * *

In the passenger cabin, two men --one small and the other exceptionally large-- were trying desperately to become invisible while their embarrassment was so intense the temperature went up by at least five degrees and kicked off the heater... and one young woman was laughing her ass off.

_"Well here comes Johnny with his pecker in his hand_  
_He's a one ball man and he's off to the rodeo_  
_And it's allemande left and allemande right_  
_Come on ya fuckin' dummy get your right step right_  
_Get off the stage god damn goof ya know_

_Piss me off ya fuckin' jerk get on my nerves..."_

...And the _Bouki_ headed east.

* * *

Gil Grissom stopped at the reception desk as he came in to start his shift. He did a double-take at the young woman handing him his messages. She wasn't familiar; mousey, with large glasses. The quintessential book-worm. There was even an impressive stack of textbooks next to her. He graced her with a smile and nodded at the books. "What's your major?"

She blinked owlishly at him. "Major?"

"I assumed you were taking classes at the university with all those textbooks on your desk," he said, mildly confused.

"Oh!" She grinned brilliantly and passed a loving hand over the books. "These? Just a little light reading. For the fun of it."

Gil tilted his head enough to see the titles on the spines and felt his brows climbing up his forehead. Most of the books were for one form or another of quantum theory. "Interesting," was all he could find to say, then he strode off with his messages in his hand.

He was halfway down the hall to his office, puzzling over one rather cryptic message, when he bumped into Catherine... literally.

"Must be some message," she said when his head jerked up.

Gil glanced back over his shoulder. "Did you know we have a new night receptionist?"

"That time of the month again?"

Gil scowled in confusion at Catherine. "Huh?"

She chuckled and said, "Figures you wouldn't notice. We get a 'new' night receptionist about once a month. None of them stay long."

"I can't imagine why," he said. "It's usually a nice and quiet job for them."

"And when it's not boring as hell, it's weird." Catherine craned her neck to see the message in Gil's hand better. "So what's so interesting that you weren't watching where you were going?"

Gil held up the slip of paper and said, "This? An invitation. Do you like pie? I hear the ones they serve at the cafe in Indian Springs is really good."

"Uh... sure."

Gil grinned and headed off to his office. "Great, we're leaving in five minutes."

* * *

**Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix. CSI: and CSI: Miami are created and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and owned by CBS. All rights reserved.**

**Lyrics to 'The Rodeo Song' copyright to Gary Lee and the Showdown. No profit is made from this work, all rights reserved.**


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